Often after the curtain is drawn, I slip behind damp veils of clotted blindness, closing off my senses to the outer world that sneers at my attempts to hide from myself by withdrawing into myself.
Manic outbursts. Those moments when all the tedious details of life meld into one big frustrated pouting question of why do I have to do all this human bullshit every day? Perhaps I've spent too long floating in-between to feel a sense of home in one or the other. Confusion has been known to encourage the desire to escape. And escaping is often an easy downhill roll; look Mom, no hands.
It's funny like that. When I spend intimate time with someone, I often wish to be back in the solace of the numbing arms of my solitude. However, once I get there, such feelings of detachment wrap me up in the blatant fact that I was hiding from myself all along.
But it's boring. And repetitive. Next time might be a different setting or emotion, but always chock full of human deception. And that laughter singing from across the line drawn in chalk, marking the duality of my silver lining radar.
I could change. I'm teetering on the edge of that cliff knowing that at some point, if I jump, I'll just get cold and wet. Which is worse than not having to go through the whole ridiculous process of getting there and getting out. Predictability and apathy breeding with the seduction of routine and false comfort.
Maybe something in me just craves observing myself in the rush of falling.
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