I’m in this funk, and I’m not exactly sure why – or even if it’s legit. As a writer, you’d think I’d see opportunity. I mean, a funk to a writer simply fills our arsenal with a ton of literary genius that quite possibly sells a million copies and wins the Pulitzer, right. Instead, I have to analyze the heck out this funk, this … thing …
Is it real? Am I making it up? Do I even have a right to be in a funk? I’m not dying, homeless, hungry; I’m not poor, abused or in jail. I can’t even remember the last time I cut myself shaving. What is my problem, and how dare I feel bad. I have a job. I have a roof over mine, and Haley and Marley’s heads. I have a serious stash of Pumpkin Spice m&ms, and let’s face it, I can’t remember the last time I cut myself shaving.
Well, it turns out today was a fine day for an epiphany. I’ve had one or two over the course of my lifetime, but this one was the most heart wrenching of the three. (Wow, once I put the total count in black and white, it’s almost funk-worthy in itself the serious lack in divine manifestation that I’ve had. I mean, just three?!? Holy Jesus, no wonder I don’t know shit.)
I am a series of contradictions. It starts with how I live.
I don’t allow myself to attach to ‘things’. I don’t. Things come and go. You have them then you lose them. You want them so you compromise something to have them. Then you lose them. Nothing comes and stays, except the expectations, obligations, and the awkward dependency. Things are objects that, in certain instances, can attach to emotions. I don’t need to look at a table and remember, “Oh, that’s the table that I dropped dad’s glass of wine on and it shattered and dripped on to the carpet and he turned into one angry Aztec God on me.”
Things clutter my life and they can very easily misdirect me most of the time.
But things look nice on the wall.
Then the contradiction moves into my heart.
Men. Maaaannnn… men.
I watched my dad die and with his very last breath, he kissed my mom. It is the one time, in my lifetime, that has left me breathless. I want that. I want to love that man that much that I am willing to give my last breath to him in a kiss. I know this man exists, because if he doesn’t, that would be terrible and I don’t want to think about it, but, like things, men come with expectations and obligations and dependency; compromise is a given, and often one-sided, as well as trust and honesty. Let’s add monogamy in there, shall we. If he’s the right man, then [most of] that list is worth it, but if he’s not, and what if he’s not? Why take the chance? Why not take the chance. Why? Why not. Why? I could do this all day.
He might look nice on the wall.
Let’s move on. Why has the goal in life been to be smarter and funnier and more successful tomorrow than today? Why do I work so hard at making more money? Why do I care about living in a nicer house in a nicer neighborhood, or driving a car that has two working headlights? Why develop that cure for cancer? Extreme, I know, but stay with me for a minute. In the end, I will die.
I. Will. Die.
It’s bound to happen. Everyone is going to die, even the person that is cured from cancer will eventually die – not from cancer, I get it, but death is death is death is death. Why do I go through all this, why is my attention focused on being better, getting better, wanting better – more school to become smarter, work longer hours to be more successful, work harder to make more money, when in the end, after spending all those moments in a classroom, in an office, in Firestone, I am going to die. Moments spent that way shouldn’t matter that much to a person… to me. That cliché, there is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved, is spot on. When I die, that is what will matter. When I die, if those things left in my house mean more to Haley than the love I had for her, then I messed up. Why can’t I just sit down and not want more, not feel guilty about not wanting more, and not feel lazy for not going after more? I mean, what’s wrong with a little white space on the wall?
