Somedays I love too much, somedays I love too little
Apathy drives me on odd-numbered days. Or is it even? I was never good with numbers.
Dog dreams seem to make so much more sense than human ones. A perfect reflection of their everyday lives, instead of a mash-up of experience, wishes, and commercials on TV.
I make up whole universes in my head—whether this is imagination or just depression, I don’t know. Some days I wish I lived on a space ship. Some days I wish I lived back when women were expected to do nothing more than get married and raise children. I feel like a traitor to admit this. But I want a husband, a home, and children. I think I can be a proper Victorian ideal and Virginia Woolf at the same time. Why not? She did say that you need to kill the angel in the house. But what if you can’t even find it to kill it? The angel is lost in the Amazon ideal. This sounds very conservative. I don’t mean it to be. I am a female, and I am proud of it. Glad of it. But softness is not exactly prized outside of nostalgic novels. I like being soft. I like being comfortable, and nurturing. I love the feeling of comforting someone I love who is hurting. I want to be needed; to make someone’s way easier, if only for the night. I feel too much sometimes, I feel like I am too much for anyone to handle. I either want to laugh or cry, I hardly feel any middle ground anymore. Why is everything about FEELING? I am so tired of feeling. I just want contentment, and peace. I don’t know how to find it outside of where I am expected to find it. Church didn’t give me peace. Going to college didn’t give me contentment. Trying my hand at a relationship only gave me grief, or an emptiness I didn’t expect. Friends and family fill the void, but it’s like a quick fix. A little while after they’re gone, all the inadequacies and abandonment issues come rushing back and I feel like the weakest human being on the planet. I have no backbone; no spine! One small slight and I’m crying again, putting all my hope in a bottle. Hope is a stupid thing. In my experience, it only leads to shit. Jack Kerouac said he became a drunk because he liked the ecstasy of the mind. I only see epiphanies and feel meaningful at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Is that unfortunate, or am I just told to feel unfortunate about it? Maybe I should take the medicine to feel happy, but maybe my best thoughts come out of misery and hopelessness; although I can’t quite put my finger on a reason for me to be hopeless. I guess I just feel useless. I wish I could not believe in hope. I wish I could stop hoping, in anything. My hope never amounts to anything. I joke about my low expectations, but sometimes I think it’s the only way to get through today. Some days I think; it wouldn’t be so bad, living from paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that’s the only way some people can really live, without getting caught up in consumerism; the American dream. Keith Green once said that you should only go to college if you feel called by God to go. I never felt more that I was not where I was supposed to be than when I was in college. So maybe it’s not so bad. Love God, and love people. I don’t need a degree to do that.
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