Meditation IX

I was always out of character. Not to say I really had character, but whoever it was, whether a friend, a partner or a colleague, they always mentioned how I acted weird around them. That they saw me with others, and I was always gone. But it didn't really matter what I told them, whether it was a one time thing, or I managed to stave it off on multiple occasions. It eventually eroded through, and I was left without them, again.

So I didn't really care when someone promoted me, or gave me praise. It wasn't anything I could take pride for, because that wasn't me. Or sometimes I did take pride, and it still felt wrong. I would rub in the faces of whoever I could, while three months ago I had not even mentioned it to anyone. But these problems of self aren't something a full grown man should experience. I left them behind, as a kid, not outgrowing them, but rather ignoring them.

When I'm alone, I don't speak to myself. I eat whatever left overs I have, and try to find something that doesn't require me to think. On the multiple occasions where I start journals, I laugh at my sentences, because none of them are concrete. They are full of maybes and buts and also and perhaps. I can't decide on one thing, and then I rip out the pages. Or at least, I did when I was young. Now I just toss the book into the garbage, because I'm not someone who recycles. But sometimes I merely erase my few words, and put it back on the shelf, because I care. Whenever I try this, in the hopes of creating something useful, something worth recording, or even something that's me, it never goes through.

So it doesn't really matter, when I leave it out, and someone comes and reads it. They ask me why I can't decide on what my favourite colour is, because I've listed seven under that heading, and I tell them that I know for sure I don't like green. Or purple, cause it's happened multiple times, and I can never bring myself to give the same answer. 'Cause sometimes, I know that they never wear green, and I can tell they agree. But others, I say I hate pink, as they stare at me with all their pink clothes.

I am not anything. I am away from that which others have, and I cannot say that sentence twice. But I can't be bitter about this, and I'm not. I make it sound like I'm cynical, and I know that if I said that's not me, you wouldn't believe me. Cause It can't say that. Sometimes, I tell people I hate them. But it truth, I don't. I don't like anyone either. It's hard to understand what it's like, to not be in character. I assume.

Imagine, here in metaphor, a piece of grass. When you look from one side, it's so thin as to not be able to see it. From the other, thick enough to catch a rain drop. But between your movement of head, or shift of feet, there isn't anything there, cause you're too worried about stepping on it. When you loose your attention, or when someone else comes to take a peak, it that brief second, it is me. Which is the weird part, because I can't put the attention to myself.

Too bad.

But it's not like I run from mirrors, and I am obviously aware of what state I'm in. But just because something exists, doesn't mean you can cure. People who admit they fear something, don't stop fearing that. As long as it doesn't control them. Which I don't let.

If you spend time with me, you'll figure this out. But if I didn't want so many different relationships, what would I do? Would I simply not be? This is what I am. Or, it's what I'm saying I am right now. Perhaps it doesn't really matter.

I'd rather be with you, as an angry middle-aged man, or as a saint, instead of with you, as nothing at all. Even if it's always changing. And I can't decide, what colours I like.