by way of distraction

Hello, my textual life's companions,

The last two days have been difficult; I had a very promising job interview on Friday (the only promising thing to crop up on the job-hunt-front in the last month) and was told that I would be contacted with a verdict by Tuesday afternoon at the latest. I've been trying to do things that will keep me distracted but still within hearing range of my phone. I went to the bank, got groceries, made a hearty lunch, and watched a few choice episodes of Six Feet Under (showing more restraint than is typical for me, I might add), but nothing took away that nervous jittery feeling from my lungs. Each passing minute only served to convince me further that I had come up the loser yet again, having been led into false hope by the God I just learned to trust again.

But narcissism is transfixing. I find it the most effective of all those bittersweet distractors. It was only when I retired to my study and opened up Tink (my laptop) that I was able to vanquish my squirrelly anxiety for more than five minutes. As I write, it has returned, but I look forward to it dissipating again for a while when I return to the activity that first served to alleviate my feelings of powerlessness in face of uncertainty. The activity in question: reading over all my old top-secret creative writing. All my experiments with stream-of-consciousness and free association. All my nauseatingly self-obsessed contemplations of pain and past and friends and men and boys. I like proofreading my literary spontaneity. I like amending my effusiveness. But most of all, I like being surprised by words I forgot I ever wrote, even if they're not in the greatest combinations and most inspired arrangements imaginable. It's not often that I open a document that is absolutely unfamiliar; I frequently find myself surprised by my forgotten writings, yes, but usually they feel at home in my mind once I've read two thirds of the content. I found a short piece today that I still can't remember writing. None of it sounds familiar, even though its tone and style is unmistakably my own. Even the characters it addresses eluded my recollection for about fifteen minutes. Eventually I had to check the document's info to see when I wrote it so I could put it in the emotional context of my calendar.

It's basically just the weirdness of this memory situation that has compelled me to share it with all y'all. That, and sometimes I just feel the need to put very personal sentiments in very public places. I suppose it's a way of pushing myself out of the reclusive pattern that I find so flattering to my complexion.

So play on, player...

the days are so long when you don't look at me like you used to. the wise man says I don't want to hear your voice, but as everyone knows I am fortune's fool. you know this but you pretend not to for reasons beyond me. if you loved me when I'm sad like I wish you would it would all be better, but you only love me when you laugh. you only look at me then, only write to me when we feel the sadness making waves across the space between us. and every moment I think without thinking of the endless possibilities of my life, what would have been if his family didn't have a history of alcoholism so I could've seduced the experienced older brother. would I feel shame or disillusionment or confusion or confidence or anything at all. would I be able to look you in the face and know you want me. would I be able to look myself in the mirror. I'd go without makeup for the rest of my life if you would still turn your face to face me. I can't stand another sedentary day with grey over my shoulder in every direction.