307 Woodlands Way

Better today, but for no good reason. Yesterday I got tragically little done, aside from personal grooming, which I guess is something.

I can’t wait to be done with my ex. I don’t think there’s anything more that I can gain from knowing him. I am getting to the point where I am, even in the pit of my soul, abandoning all hope of ever getting back together with him. Not that I ever really wanted to, honestly, I didn’t even want to be with him for most of the time that I was, but having a stable person in my life made the narrative make sense. However, seeing him the other day, and actually most days that I have, it doesn’t help the narrative make sense. He’s not the person he was in my head, and I guess he never was. He can’t help this make sense.

So, my question is, what will? Will anything? Does anything, after all is said and done, ever make sense, is there even a point in me trying to make it make sense? There is a sharply acidic feeling in my stomach, probably a result of the pill I just swallowed, that lets me know that no, nothing will make sense.

What you have to remember in these cases is that you’re the one making the sense here.

One of my absolute favorite professors, talking about how schizophrenic and severe aphasic ramblings may appear to have some relevance to a the patient, or the surroundings, but that’s because we as observers try to make things make sense and can use our functioning brains to make the connection between their random word salad and what we see or know about the situation. We’re making, manufacturing, the sense, but the patient is not actually making the sense themselves. They’re crazy.

I got a jab in on my left side, in front of the bottom rib, and so I got up to take a look around and lost a few sips. Moving should be ok. Why is so much of my productivity tied to sitting down? I have to change that. I have to really get some thought into redoing this apartment, which I will honestly probably leave as soon as I do.

I wanted to click away and see if that house in the woods was available… I know which one. <=== I did.

My coffee is getting cold, and closer to empty, and I have adrenaline, finally blooming, behind my heart. There is a lot to do today.

I finally got a response from a company that I have been writing to relentlessly for almost a year. Maybe things will work out after all. Maybe my pathetic, gray haired (ok it’s not that bad), cellulite covered (ok it’s not that bad), degenerate (ok, my criminal defense lawyer hasn’t gotten back to me but it’s not that bad… is it?), half blind (please, let it get better) self will finally crawl over the finish line to success eventually anyway.

I mean it’s not like I can really stop trying here.

Suicide just isn’t my speed anymore.

One Comment Add yours

  1. Anna says:

    So much of life is continuous.

    The house has just been reduced, I’m mourning myself in the wake of miscellaneous exes, and I’m mentally biting my nails to the quick (why does that thought make me cringe so hard) over the results of another interview that I really do want.

    The post has a similar feeling.

    I had a thought – what if the whole house is there simply to give a narrative to this thread of my internal narrative? Would that whole house (and those outrageous condo fees) somehow be worth this? Then, I think that maybe the house is serving the same purpose to so many people, every click counted in their views… maybe we’re all anchoring to it in some way or another, and then maybe it would be worth it.

    And what of the people that live there? It’s a backbone to their narrative, for sure, and that has nothing to do with me. The people who sold it, do they have a similarly convoluted experience to mine, selling my house, or closer to my parents, selling theirs, or to me, with my parents selling their house? The people who bought it, do they look at it like my brother, lost in nostalgia looking at the floor in the den and realizing that it’s the same slate tile that existed in a house that he will never be allowed to see again? Is someone going to drive down that sparse back road and look down the driveway, peering through the trees to catch a glimpse of a house that once was theirs, like I do when I drive by my grandmother’s house? The neighbors, is it a house of a former friend, a porch they used to hang out on during hot summer days, and now they’re left to grill on their own porch alone, conscious of strangers in the yard next door, grilling on theirs?

    I want to know what this place means to everyone, all of a sudden. It compels me to text one of my friends from the dream, and I feel like I should do whatever it compels me to do.

    What the fuck else was I doing anyway.

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