This is one of those nights where I really don’t want to say anything. I do not want o blog or write anymore. I do not want to think anymore. I want to be able to turn on something mindless where I have very low to no expectations and therefore have my expectations met by the circumstance. I want to step away from this daily life where the high bar is that the day might actually not wind up sucking and I might actually not get into a terrible disagreement with those I love and respect the most. I’d like to step away from feeling that it is wrong to ever feel good about little things. I’d like to step away from making excuses about other people’s sadness or, conversely, taking all the blame. I’d like to do all of these things, but that is not how life works.
In life you stay in the churn. You deal with it day in and out unless you’re one of those people who injects hard escape and can go away for awhile, perhaps only creating a new set of problems through that. I am not one of those people, unless you count the games I play and the shows I watch, and if I am the problems I create or even come back to on the other side of it make me feel like I never left.
Neruda once spoke to this feeling. He wrote, in part:
That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
Pablo Neruda, Walking Around
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
He said it in words more beautiful than I can often conjure, and also more terrifying. He said it in a voice that feels like my own but also not of me. He said it with the meanness and anger of a man wracked with the fatigue of life, and of Mondays.