1000 Words of Solitude

autoretrato en palabras

This is another post dredged from the not so ancient archives of the CRG blog.

I felt it appropriate to give the post a permanent place in this blog…even though it says little directly about the topic.

Why?

Because…before folks embark on the mysterious adventure of reading what I have to say, it’s good that they know exactly what they’re getting themselves into…

the things that often occupy my mind.

The first of 1000 words of solitude begins after the last dot…

I remember lying in bed feeling the weight of the world pinning me down. I guess this is a common feeling, but at the age of 9? It felt like a dream, but I wasn’t sleeping. Maybe it was an omen of things to come.

We moved every year. My father owned a real estate brokerage and he had a penchant for constantly selling the house out from under us. It’s not like we moved far, only to different points along the same island. Maybe that’s the genesis of my inherent restlessness.

The island was crawling with tourists in the summer months, but for the other nine it was practically a deserted place. I could ride my bike from one end to the other without seeing another soul, except the one policeman who patrolled up and down the road. Maybe that is why I grew up to be a loner.

I was often fearful. I didn’t really know what the next day would bring. Would there be violence today, or peace? It was fairly unpredictable.

I seemed to be at odds with normality. I never really cared to fit in. It seemed that doing so was to accept the world in its cruel and unforgiving state. I longed for something better.

I like to kid myself into thinking I am doer, but the reality of it is that I am the world’s biggest dreamer. Oh I can dream…really dream. But the execution part tends to exhaust or bore me. So I rarely ever get around to it.

Being a classic introvert, I am prone to constant bouts of morbid introspection. Trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. I guess that’s normal…or is it?

Holding down a job…that’s never been a strong suit. I suck at being an employee.

Here’s my advice to the world…don’t hire me!

It’s not that I am afraid, or unwilling, to work. It’s just I think too highly of myself to do it for anyone other than me.

I will admit that I often lapse into fantasy. With a view of the world that does not quite comport with reality. One in which people are actually nice to each other on more than simply a patronizing level.

I remember being a swashbuckling pirate. Me and my imaginary (or was it real?) friend would blaze trails through the jungles of tall myrtles in search of something…actually I don’t remember exactly what.

Maybe that sparked the lifelong yearning for adventure.

I remember on family road trips fantasizing that my arm extended to a ridiculously long and sharp blade that cut everything we passed in half…Jack Kerouac described the very same vision in On the Road. I believe we are kindred spirits.

I believe the tendency towards self-destruction is sewn into my genes. My deceased uncle was so-afflicted…as well as my father. But so far I remain semi-intact.

I have always had this strange feeling as if some hand of fate were guiding me. If that’s the case, it has a warped sense of humor since my path has been exceedingly erratic and pointless.

I am woefully co-dependent. I latch on to relationships, those with the opposite sex, hanging on for dear life. I tell myself it is love…but is it really?

I often have visions of being a modern-day Thoreau. But the difference is that I would have to hire out all the handy work.

I do desperately want to understand why I am here. I feel that there must be a reason…as pointless as my life has seemed to be until now.

I am afraid of criticism and long to be liked. Facebook really exacerbates that obsession.

I actually tried to be a lawyer once. Is there anything about me that is fit to that profession? I think not. I should have figured that out in my first year of law school…but have I mentioned above about my hard-headed-ness?

I have never physically harmed anyone and I am actually proud of that. But I have let many down. I am ashamed of that.

I often feel stuck…like the weight of something is holding me down. Maybe that was what the earlier omen foretold.

I do honestly want to help. If you need help, don’t be afraid to ask me. I will try my best.

I always have these ticks of anxiety. I once gave into them, but now I resist them. But they make me want to rush the finish…to get to that 1000 words long before I really should. Right now is one of those times.

I am grateful that Costa Rica has accepted me. I fucked up miserably in that other place. And I was rejected for it. That’s understandable, but I prefer to remain in a more hospitable place.

I often wonder what it would be like to have a perfect life. One in which everything seems to just work out. It appears there are some with such a life…or is that simply an illusion?

This has been a completely pointless post. John Kennedy Toole wrote a book like that.

He killed himself when no one read it…

And then it won a Pulitzer prize.