Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Irony is a big, old, honking bitch

Lately, certainties seem to slip through my fingers. I can grasp all I want, set all the clever little traps to get that "extra edge" but all for naught. I swear that the truth is lurking right before me, so close I can physically feel it. Vague but as tactile as breath scraping across my skin. The big April Fool's joke is that Certainty does not exist - and that's the only certainty! Irony is a big, old, honking bitch.

Today, I vented about work and hopefully didn't get anyone in trouble in the process - I want to retract it all and fling it down the garbage disposal where it belongs. Desperation is sticky and I can feel its slime trickle down all over me. I think when my office nameplate launched into a suicide dive to my feet while Kelcey talked about her earring flying out of its place was an omen.

I am flawed, imperfect, terrible. I think that's what I'm supposed to learn from this. Not that it's "OK" but that I should know better by now. Now, that I am lifting this thin veil of ignorance to what I have allowed to happen inside of me. My heart endures but I've been treating it like an enemy and wrenched it from its natural partnership with mind. Speaking of which, this self/soul mutilation has fostered a bloated mess that clogs clear vision. I picture some grotesque alien with a flabby head so large its prone to drag limply behind me as I trudge along.

It needs to stop now.

No comments:

Post a Comment