Sometimes in a quiet moment I will stop and reflect that I am, for the most part, rather good at being me. I’ve cobbled together enough bits and pieces of myself to approximate a human being. And if no one looks too closely, the image holds up. Of course, sometimes it’s necessary to hold people at arm’s length so they don’t get too good of a look so that they see the cracks and the holes that I’ve filled with debris.
I spend most of my days trying to get through the day, walking the razor’s edge between productivity, creativity, normalcy and a total collapse. The commercials ask me if I have thoughts of suicide, and I laugh. Every day. For decades. But I’d never do it. I’ve gotten this far out of a stubborn determination that I’ve worked too hard on this particular project to throw it away in a fit a self-pity and desperation. But I also realize that it might not be entirely normal to think about it so much.
I am firm in my conviction that I was put here on Earth to do some Great Thing, even though I feel terribly inadequate for that task. The Goddess, the Fates, The Universe, or Whatever, put into my head a thousand great ideas, but left me ill-prepared and lacking in ambition or focus. Sometimes I can almost hear the angels snickering as another idea is dropped into my head. Sometimes I won’t pick up a pencil because I know that when I put it to paper another issue will show itself – yet another project that I’ll never get around to.
The Lady put me here with the vision but without the means. I am wondrously made, and yet have no practical application. I’m an experiment that was intended to ponder the Universe, but was left without the time to do so. I am what I am, and hope my delusions of individuality are more than a fanciful, soothing balm, but have yet to find anyone who cares for the unvarnished reality of who I am. As I grow older I tire of trying to placate the drones. But I know that the mere glimpse of the unadorned machine would send them running.
The motto of a friend is a simple one, but it makes more sense to me as I get older. The Latin version is “utrum per hebdomadem perveniam”. Loosely translated, it means “if I can just get through this week”. That’s my life. Keep the bundle tied tightly together to seem as human as possible, hope the drones don’t notice the cracks in the facade, and work your way through each day. Every week survived without waking to torches in your windows at night is a good week. Every week survived without turning every person you know into an enemy is a good week. Some are better than others.
Sometimes I wish I could be what everyone wants me to be; the sweet, caring kid that I was so many decades ago. But I’m angry, and tired, and the voices won’t leave me alone, and the ideas and dreams keep coming, and I find myself sometimes looking at the dust on the window sill and wondering how so much time slips by me. As I sit here I study the cracks in the leather of my chair and reflect that three years of steady use has taken its toll, and it occurs to me that I barely tasted those three years. My life is slipping away from me, and I waste so much time and energy pretending that I am an actual human being. If not for the fact that I need those drones to accomplish whatever the Great Thing is, I’d steal away to a mountain cabin and spend my days as I damned well pleased, with no purpose or intent whatsoever.
None of this makes sense. It’s random words, strung together with bits and pieces of heartfelt meaning. But I’m tired of making sense. I’m tired of it all having to make sense.
