Thursday, March 24, 2011

rosebud


thursday, march 24, 2011, 10:45 pm

            last night, i spuriously made a rather large list. spurious in that i did not plan on doing it last night. however, i had been thinking of doing it for some time.
            the list is comprised of groups of things that, when thinking of one thing in the group, it reminds me of all the other things in the group. and so on.
            i have referred to these groups in the past as ‘mental boxes’. i think that this is an appropriate expression.
            i was aware of at least a few of my mental boxes, but i did not think that i would end up identifying to many. it was enlightening.
            of the many things i learned about myself from constructing this list was that i seem to always be looking for my childhood somewhere. which is to say, many contemporary things in my life that could possibly find their way into or generate a brand new mental box, also bring along many things from my childhood as well.
             i do not find this alarming and instead i find it to be entirely natural—a very human thing to do. as i age, i cannot help but feel like my childhood memories—old, rarely every thought of, collecting mental cobwebs—are fading from known experiences into transient dreams. and this is sad. although it is not a surprise.
            even last summer seems only like a dream to me. which is to say: my past experiences—solidified and known—are quickly eroding from memory and into dreams—transient, wispy, and of an uncertain source and nature. and this is sad.
            i think i keep trying to find my childhood everywhere because—like most human beings who had a mostly pleasant childhood—i am finding that being an adult is too damned hard and too damned competitive and too damned painful all of the fucking time. i think i keep trying to find my childhood everywhere because—like most human beings who had a mostly pleasant childhood—it was the last time in my life that i can barely remember where i had no responsibilities whatsoever. and everything and everyone seemed to get along fine. and nothing hurt. and—so it seemed—most of the human beings who surrounded me at a predictable frequency seemed to be living solely for me. i was the unselfish center of their little universe. and everything was grand.
            and now everything about life beyond those years lives in the looming shadow cast by a pleasant past. there is barely anything to look forward to that has any long-term merit. no real human success. no love. no friendship. just money. slave. a job. slave. an education. slave. bills. slave. taxes. slave.
            i can get more out of my life than this, for sure. but it saddens me to think that stripped down to the bone—this is what life has become about. not love or music or art or dancing. none of the simple things anymore.
            none of the simple joys of being a child. clad in nothing but diapers. running around the den. no more. none of the home life in which an infant (that which i still am, of course) can—if it is lucky enough—find itself to be raised in: grandfather, father, television and chicken noodle soup. no more.
            this is not coming out right. i have been typing this mostly while sleeping. i will give it another go soon.
            still, i think it is ok.
concluding statement: there has got to be more to life after childhood than this. but i find that adults are just big babies anyway. and so, in that case, why in the fuck are we taking everything so seriously?
the real babies aren’t.
ga ga goo goo.

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