To Love Again, And Again, And Again

I see often Mom there appears to be some who seem to embrace pain and disappointment, like I embrace walks on sunny days, or Irish kisses on my nose when I’m crying. I often have wondered what it is they seek within those intangible libations we oft intake, only to wake with pounding reality all to clear the next morn.

It is clear that they believe somehow they are effectively dealing with this pain, but how they can’t see the truth of it, well is a question for the ages I guess, as tis not like this particular trait is unique to mankind. Seems, time and again, humans allow the pull of the pain to overtake our being, and we go tumbling off into those Helium Spheres I know so well.

I myself have partaken in the parade of painful memories and disappointed dream walks, and selling your sanity to the highest bidder; and I’m done with it. And as god is my witness, I am done trying to make people see what they refuse to acknowledge. It is a useless endeavor…I resolve to be selfish from here on in.

London-town

Here on in Mom, it’s all about PAULA…crazy paula, nice paula, sweet paula, angry paula…whatever, I am no longer going to be editing the content to appease, or tease. Tis the full monty from now on.

So right now Mom, if you don’t mind, I don’t feel particularly keen on getting into the particulars of this current dialogue I’m having with myself, however, the main player in the drama has blue eyes. Main player actually being rather, mmm…actually the dynamic opposite from the current scenario. As the main player would normally have to be present, on the stage, interacting in SOME fashion with the audience. But no, that is not the case here.

But I digress. Pain, it humbles your resolve, I know. It is so easy to just sink down into that hammock of tequila and beer, or whatever the liquid or powdered pain-killer of choice you partake in, but, again, I digress.

It is faulty math to believe that 2+3 equals 4.

And these walking wounded believe their pain is just that more unique than yours is. Their pain is more…so they believe this qualifies them to different rules, and so they can stash it away in whichever way they choose, since how could you possibly know? You just don’t know…you don’t understand…can’t possibly since my pain is so insignificant to their giant bugbear of pain.

It is pure delirium to believe such irrational thoughts, but these sorts just suffer, and rarely in silence, and their pain is just such a woe and a wound to carry, and pick at until it festers and goes gangrene and must be amputated.

Then in return you get to carry those broken shards around in your gunny sac of guilt, and as you go it stabs and breaks new flesh. And so always, and for ever more, you carry around all those sharp and jagged bits of your self you ignored.

In time you become that old drunk on the street corner I met that snowy December day, all those years ago. That year before you died, that fateful week of discarded crows falling from the sky of black, to staggering homeless drunks clutching your arm for balance, as you both stumble down together that cold wintery evening in 2000. The broken and jumbled mess that old man handed me, in all its fragments and lost loves, lost houses, family, friends, everything lost behind them in a boozey haze of anger and fear.

Or they become that skinny old broad who frequents all the local haunts, young at heart only. Coughing up god knows what from inside, looking all that and a bag of chips, until you see her without those beer bottle glasses of the night before. And she stumbles from bar to bar, person to person, disappearing into a mist of pain and pills and alone in some hospital room surrounded by strangers, she finally gives into the mistress that pain has become.

Like the medusa she is, one moment of weakness and you find you are turned to stone. No emotions break free again, not a one. For they are so buried deep, that when they emerge they are like some lost and forgotten volcano when it suddenly froths to life and drowns you in its purge.

But what is this all about? I don’t know. I’m just going to do my best to stumble away from this pain seeking thing and get on with my Irish kisses and walks on sunny days.

Always,

Paula

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