Saint Valentine Was Buried in Rome of this Month
Some people carry their lives on their backs. I just carry this self-revolving world including good deeds for my siblings that give me good karma. The typical.
Like Eddie McDowd, we couldn’t function without karma whether we were Buddhist or not.
And then you meet those confident people who teach you everything you know. Their ego is inspirational and they’ve got a hint of sympathy so that you know they’re human.
You’re convinced you can do anything. You’re accomplished unrequited, pure love and you’re close to spoiling yourself with infidelity. You have everything. Your career is at its peak, your family is openly proud of you, and your friends are just slightly jealous. It’s perfect.
You’re away from the conventional consideration of following rules and obedience. You’re realistic within yourself, thinking of yourself because no one changes and they instead grow into selfish teenagers and selfish adults. You feel esteemed and self-loving and belonging.
But then that one person, an angel in your eyes, turns infectious and even their apologies sound cocky. And you don’t conceptualize that until for some reason you become down and you’re clawing at something to account it to.
And it frustrates you because you’re the only one who seems to care. You care that that one friend doesn’t want to hang out anymore. You care that the future is dwindling. You can’t fit into your favorite jeans anymore. Things aren’t the same.
Your parents are starting to piss you off like you’re in high school. Your career isn’t worth it. You want to run away and infidelity just doesn’t do it like you thought it would. You’re feeling sat on and so far from self-actualization.
It’s only because you didn’t even think of transcendence. You didn’t think of the unclothed attitude of giving to others humbly. You didn’t think of not minding your pride because it was too vain like an IMAX screen showing close ups of a deteriorating relationship. A relationship much like yourself forgetting about the dog until you find him on the roadside dead. And you’re cursing yourself and cursing yourself again for even getting a dog because you’re allergic.
There’s got to be a way to get past yourself. There’s got to be a way to relieve yourself from it all so that you can give back without feeling unreciprocated and then understand how to give back without feeling guilty.
Some people carry their lives on their backs. I just carry this self-revolving world on my shoulders. So much time goes by and each day feels like a drone but I look back and everything’s changed. And then I think that everything’s changing and my life is improving when it’s not. People stay the same. Just stay in the inferiorized social role you were put in by narcissists admiring confident hot-shots. You’ll get your turn. You’re a step closer to feeling belonging.
The Post Disorder
We drank from the same cup, my brother. And she couldn’t bear touch our infant bodies. She was touched first. And my grandmother was livid but she couldn’t live with it so she bought a rug to sleep under. I belonged there, too. It wasn’t news she was afraid. She returned from the war, realizing with her amygdala that fighting must have been a figment of her make believe life. Because her bones, honed with every strain from euphoria, became less hollow for some reason, my brother blamed for his mouth, too. But I prayed for longevity. The scissors that they used to separate me from her womb would be inside me if he left. That’s the difference. She couldn’t bear the repulsiveness. I was barely introduced. So I don’t wait for anyone unless I’m left. Fear induced the tears that left me and the comfort of being close by. Like my grandmother’s lies, darkness filled my body. I took it, unhooking because I, myself, am alive.
