Birthday Wishes

 December 19, 2011 

I keep looking towards the future, and I keep not seeing myself in it.  I am not sure where I ought to fit into this cacophony.  Constantly befuddled, very little seems to make sense to me; I start to wonder if I am the one with the faulty logic.  My goals are small, my desires modest and manageable, yet somehow I feel as if they do not suffice.  As if they will not propel me forward and I will always be left behind to cough on the dust raised by the more fleet.  I struggle, crippled by anxieties and hobbled by not bearing with me an overinflated idea of my own importance.  I’m not insulated by the archaic notion that there is a purpose to this experiment, that my mistakes will be forgiven, that there is anything beyond life.  I am not comforted with the support of a community.  I keep myself separate, afraid others will sense these things and turn on me like a pack of dogs driving away the ill.  We as a species do not embrace difference. We fear it, just as I fear the mythos those around me seem to labor under.  It stifles me, raises the hair on the back of my neck, forces me to my books, daydreams, and cheap titillations. It drives me to distraction, to compulsory actions. Constantly I wait for a shoe to drop, the floor to fall away below my feet, and I tremble.  There is no safety net waiting for me and mine and I can’t pretend otherwise.  So, I do my best to keep myself occupied, amused, satisfied in body if not in mind. And all the while I wonder how long it can last.  Another twenty-five years?  Another twenty-five years of alienation with only a deep appreciation of irony, sarcasm, and humor to take the sting away? Another twenty-five years of dubious successes and little disappointments, only to have all fall apart in middle age, just as my parents? If I’ve one birthday wish this year, let it be that I find some lasting comfort.  And If I’m not to be comfortable, at least let me find some purpose.

Let me get over myself, before myself gets one over on me.

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