Confused-Shoes

why can’t the things we mean be the only ones that actually get expressed and understood, and nothing more?

Deficiencies and excesses are fatal.  And so is expectation. And so does trust matter, and the lack of it as well. There is the past and the agonies of its wake, and there is the future, taking shape, beckoning, threatening. Oh, but then again the past and the future operate on the same plane: they are first-class torturers.

There is confusion and there is insecurity. There is unsolicited advice, with a sprinkle of concern. But sometimes everything is over even before the best intentions get filtered from those made up of sheer self-assurance and spite.

There is longing and there is ill-treatment. Emotional battery, it appears to me. The signs are unmistakeable, like the end of days. Ironically, the peak of all stress happens on the day most people honor their dead.

Before me is a vast array of options. But I haven’t got even a single iota of intelligence to choose what suits me best. Leave it all too chance and yes, I have a perfect expectation of being happy or ending up in misery. Either way that should be human nature and then nothing should come as a surprise.

I don’t know, I don’t know. Lots of times the blame’s on me. Of course now is absolutely no different. If it rains tomorrow, as someone assured me it would, or if the sun shines, it will not matter, really. Either I am drowned or burned. Death, it’s all the same. You close your eyes. I close my eyes.

The shock of your life comes when you realize your evil and your stench, when you discover that you have in you hideous things and you never ever thought they even existed. All of a sudden there they are in all their putrid and revolting glory.

The greater shocker comes when you get misunderstood.

(Well, not exactly.)

Two things. One, you’re not misundertood. In fact, it was loud and clear. What you are is evil and people get the message. Two, it ain’t a greater shocker because you’re bound to expect that you will get misunderstood, or understood, anyway.

I am Jed’s frustration, ranting at 21. This is his insecurity and inability, manifesting itself via this 21st century device called ‘blog’. It has a funny name, blog.

This is jed, always accused of employing dirty tricks, unconventional warfare. Appeal to pity and the like. They say I am feigning weakness when in truth i have nearly bled to death. People react violently to the statements I make and at the same time they couldn’t care less. Ugh, I fucking hate the phrase ‘at the same time’.

I stop blaming. There is really, really no one else and nothing to blame but me. I am a tower of Babel of conceit and reservations. I am the Little Prince gone awry. A 360-degree view and all around me I see my despicable little green monster selves in mutiny, up against the overwhelmed semblance of my civil sanity. There is really, I repeat, absolutely no one else and nothing else to blame but me.

A heap of self-shame once again, I write. I rekindle the creative in me. Creative in finding and making ways to emphasize my plight. Ah, the inner Neitzschean in me who would have eaten Tyler Durden or Holden Caulfield whole. In my worst moments I am still a colossal power, a seminal tour-de-force.

There is time for weeping.