![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Apr. 8th, 2004 10:06 pmIt all started last night. About 24 hours ago. It all hit me like a ton of bricks, but sometimes, that happens.
Sometimes, it happens.
I felt the downward spiral, and it hit me pretty hard. Like a ton of bricks.
Sometimes, it happens.
I get myself into these little places of self centered sadness, which, more often than less, center around my own Mountain of Lonely. There are many stumbling blocks, many crags, many caves in this mountain, and they all lead down. Sometimes rocks fall, and it hits hard.
Explain to me, when in the late of the night, you feel the loneliness, the depression, the unhappiness of light? And why, moreso when you're alone, do you need the urge to talk to someone. But who can you call at 11:00 at night? Who's up awake, around, and moving? More importantly, who will understand; who can you call that will hold you, keep you calm through the climb?
Who?
Sometimes, it happens that you meet a person, or two who feel as you do, who understand, who truly feel the same kind of pain that you have. But what if they don't pick up the phone? What if you don't have anyone to call?
Sometimes it works that way.
I got down. I went to bed down, and I woke up down. And late.
Along the way to work, I got herded to the 405 North. I travel on the 405 South. I normally go 710 South to the 405 South, and there is a funnel type bear right stupid thing for the interchange, and more trucks than a Rubber Duckie Convoy. And one of them flipped, blocking the interchange all kinds of ways. You couldn't see it until you were right on it, and they had cones at a point that would either push you onto the 405 north, or have you drive over the median thingy.
I had to drive North. Two stops up the road, and then both were blocked to crap, because EVERYONE was having to get off and turn around.
A spider is on my wall, just now, crawling around. Soon he will be squashed. Soon. And he'll never see it coming down. Sometimes, this goes on. Sometimes this thing happens.
I got to work, pulled off the freeway and into the lot right as my boss pulled to the light next to me.
Today wasn't going well. Not at all. Started off bad. Got worse. And I continued down, down, down. You get so low sometimes, it gets hard to pull up, to pull out of the dive.
Work doesn't help, really, not the push, not the stress, not the hate that goes along with the paycheck. And leaving has gotten slow, more difficult, less benefit for doing so.
Sometimes it happens.
There's this rhythm that goes on sometimes. It's this bump, bump, bump of life that runs like a heartbeat, but isn't a heartbeat. It's a little tune that plays in your head, and gets louder as the day goes on, as the spiral tightens and turns. It's the sound of hopelessness, despair.
It's a rhythm.
There was one point when I looked at my hands and just stared. Useless, numb things. I got up and went to the bathroom, shat, wept quietly, whiped my ass, flushed, walked to the sink and washed my hands. My useless, haggard hands.
I splashed water on my face, washing away the cry-dirt. Stared at myself, as I sometimes do. All to the bump, bump, bump, of life's rhythm.
Sometimes, there is a rhythm.
The clock tick-tick-ticked its way towards 5pm. I managed not to openly cry in front of anyone, but today I was lucky.
I drove home, singing along to a rather soulful, well-felt cover of Redemption Song. "The songs of freedom, are all I ever had..."
I've never had much. Mainly me. Family. An ever changing reflection in the mirror. Vision, what little of it I've had.
Color.
The only time that I can call my own, really, is the drive home. And even that is marred by the flash of break lights, the occasional swerve, and my own cursing at traffic, at fate, at life.
There is a rhytm to these things. A cycle. A quiet turn of an unseen wheel. Sometimes, this happens.
There are days like today, like the last few days--like the last week, months, YEAR of my life--when I feel like this...
But then the wheel turns, and I'm okay, and I've climbed the mountain of lonely, and stand, assured, and happy. When I'm full of creation, full of hope; I stand proud. And when it happens, it hits me like a ton of bricks.
Sometimes I am good, and I know it. It comes in waves; it comes in a rhythm.
But sometimes, this thing happens.
Sometimes, it happens.
I felt the downward spiral, and it hit me pretty hard. Like a ton of bricks.
Sometimes, it happens.
I get myself into these little places of self centered sadness, which, more often than less, center around my own Mountain of Lonely. There are many stumbling blocks, many crags, many caves in this mountain, and they all lead down. Sometimes rocks fall, and it hits hard.
Explain to me, when in the late of the night, you feel the loneliness, the depression, the unhappiness of light? And why, moreso when you're alone, do you need the urge to talk to someone. But who can you call at 11:00 at night? Who's up awake, around, and moving? More importantly, who will understand; who can you call that will hold you, keep you calm through the climb?
Who?
Sometimes, it happens that you meet a person, or two who feel as you do, who understand, who truly feel the same kind of pain that you have. But what if they don't pick up the phone? What if you don't have anyone to call?
Sometimes it works that way.
I got down. I went to bed down, and I woke up down. And late.
Along the way to work, I got herded to the 405 North. I travel on the 405 South. I normally go 710 South to the 405 South, and there is a funnel type bear right stupid thing for the interchange, and more trucks than a Rubber Duckie Convoy. And one of them flipped, blocking the interchange all kinds of ways. You couldn't see it until you were right on it, and they had cones at a point that would either push you onto the 405 north, or have you drive over the median thingy.
I had to drive North. Two stops up the road, and then both were blocked to crap, because EVERYONE was having to get off and turn around.
A spider is on my wall, just now, crawling around. Soon he will be squashed. Soon. And he'll never see it coming down. Sometimes, this goes on. Sometimes this thing happens.
I got to work, pulled off the freeway and into the lot right as my boss pulled to the light next to me.
Today wasn't going well. Not at all. Started off bad. Got worse. And I continued down, down, down. You get so low sometimes, it gets hard to pull up, to pull out of the dive.
Work doesn't help, really, not the push, not the stress, not the hate that goes along with the paycheck. And leaving has gotten slow, more difficult, less benefit for doing so.
Sometimes it happens.
There's this rhythm that goes on sometimes. It's this bump, bump, bump of life that runs like a heartbeat, but isn't a heartbeat. It's a little tune that plays in your head, and gets louder as the day goes on, as the spiral tightens and turns. It's the sound of hopelessness, despair.
It's a rhythm.
There was one point when I looked at my hands and just stared. Useless, numb things. I got up and went to the bathroom, shat, wept quietly, whiped my ass, flushed, walked to the sink and washed my hands. My useless, haggard hands.
I splashed water on my face, washing away the cry-dirt. Stared at myself, as I sometimes do. All to the bump, bump, bump, of life's rhythm.
Sometimes, there is a rhythm.
The clock tick-tick-ticked its way towards 5pm. I managed not to openly cry in front of anyone, but today I was lucky.
I drove home, singing along to a rather soulful, well-felt cover of Redemption Song. "The songs of freedom, are all I ever had..."
I've never had much. Mainly me. Family. An ever changing reflection in the mirror. Vision, what little of it I've had.
Color.
The only time that I can call my own, really, is the drive home. And even that is marred by the flash of break lights, the occasional swerve, and my own cursing at traffic, at fate, at life.
There is a rhytm to these things. A cycle. A quiet turn of an unseen wheel. Sometimes, this happens.
There are days like today, like the last few days--like the last week, months, YEAR of my life--when I feel like this...
But then the wheel turns, and I'm okay, and I've climbed the mountain of lonely, and stand, assured, and happy. When I'm full of creation, full of hope; I stand proud. And when it happens, it hits me like a ton of bricks.
Sometimes I am good, and I know it. It comes in waves; it comes in a rhythm.
But sometimes, this thing happens.
