Truth is, lately I've not been of sorts.
Sometimes these shifts in mood just last for so long, and you don't want to keep taking that bucket to the sinking raft you're in, because you have no idea if you're going to be making it back again and this could all be for not.
That'd be just so much easier and fulfilling to just lay back and left whatever may come, come and split with the consequences. Then at least you'd have an answer: Maybe you were meant to reach dry land; or maybe you were meant to start stashing your belongings in Davey Jones' locker.
Speaking of taking a bucket to a filling raft, the past few nights I've wound up having to sleep outside in the bed of my dads truck:
That's his bumper.
Why've I been sleeping in the bed of his truck you may find yourself asking. Valid question, e-friend, valid question.
About two weeks ago, I went to use the lieu (Spiced up for you European kids, for you English kids, that's the crapper.) I have the master bedroom of the house, so my bathroom is connected to my room. The carpet from my room ends right at the doorway, where it turns into linoleum. As I stepped on the carpet, squish...squish.
Two problems with this: One I hate, more than anything in this world, wet socks. I'd rather wake up on fire.
Two: Stepping on wet carpet...I didn't have some sort of water party last night. Or did I? I'd been taking Ambien....but where's the slip n' slide? Something is askew....
It took a few days for it to register that as a pre-cautionary, when we first moved into the house a few years ago, I'd placed a bucket under the sink. So I checked under the sink, and sho' nuff the bucket was filled to the brim with water.
The faucet had a slight drip to it, so I though..."eh, five years and only one bucket fill? Not too bad." Emptied the bucket, and within a few hours the carpet seemed to be drier.
The next morning, the carpet was drenched again, so much more so. I checked the bucket again, and yep...filled to the brim.
Now, I don't know anything about tools. I write for God's sake, they aren't exactly a strong spot. I might play sports, but nothing requiring a tool; like baseball and hockey (I'm aware of Tennis, I just refuse to consider that anything more than a boring version of ping-pong...only boring). I like those sports to watch, but to play...count me out. Way too complicated.
But it becomes apparent that the water had eaten a hole through the plumbing. Go American tap water!
For the past few days a plumber friend of my Dad's, and he have been working early...early morning to correct this problem. Problem is...it is way too loud to sleep, especially when you don't sleep well to begin with, and are an extremely light sleeper.
Hence sleeping in the back of my Dad's truck.
But the past few days I haven't wanted to sleep to much.
I just want to be gone. I'm just now a little bit over half-way past the first landmark with these medications. In the next five days the dosage will be increased by double.
But I'm so frustrated. With everything. I'm tired of sitting on the borderline.
Borderline between sanity and...just not being "here" anymore.
Borderline between confidant, or more.
Borderline between moving on to something some people want to believe I'm capable of, or just being what was always expected of me--nothing.
It goes back to the sinking raft. You have this bucket, and at first you just work so hard to stay afloat. But at some point, after 23 years...you're just going through the motions of staying afloat. You have no clue if some miraculous boats coming to save you, if you'll reach dry land, or if you'll eventually succumb to either the elements, or sink to the bottom.
If you board the boat, you could be in worse company than before. Or if you believe that boats coming...what happens when it doesn't come? You can't ever put your faith in the unseen, hoping thats the trump card.
If you reach dry land, what if it's a deserted island? At least in the raft you had clear cut options, but now...if it's deserted, there really isn't much to look forward too. Even if it is populated, you might be too used to being stranded for it to even matter. Every man can be an island.
If you succumb to the elements, Murphy's Law dictates that the second that death rattle is done reverberating...help is on the way.
Whats left is sinking to the bottom. Or risking it, and letting the cards fall where they may.
And sometimes that feels more comforting than anything else I can think of.
I have no knowing if I'm going to see the end of this tunnel. It's too dark right now, and I can't just turn back, either.
I just don't care right now.
Theres a lot of roads left ahead of me. They all point to one thing, though: I'll never be that contender...I'm addicted to shooting myself in the foot and offering the other one for extra transport. Some people serve as cautionary tales: I'm one of them.
I'm sick of being that sixth person of the bench. We can win games, but it's the starting line-up that gets the nod night after night.
"I wish I wrote you one original note."
I really do. But Jesus Christ, I'm such a scam.
Until tomorrow.
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