Monthly Archives: September 2013

Melancholia

For when words aren’t enough.

 

We’ll never stop missing you.


Hey there, humanity.

Hey there, little brat.  Up the stairs you come yapping on your cell phone.  It’s a quiet zone up here.  We come up here to get away from people like you.  You ignore the signs, and keep on talking.  Quite the nuisance, disturbing the rest of us.  But you don’t care.  What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there rich girl.  With your high heels, dark sunglasses and oversized Coach bag.  I saw you push by that other women to get up the stairs.  Kind of rude, don’t you think?  But you don’t care.  Tons of seats available, but you have to get up there to get first choice.  What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there, Mr. Stink.  I’m glad you sat at the other end of the train car.  Just walking by filled the air with the smell of sweat and cheap cologne and frustration.  But you don’t care. I bet I’ll smell that for the rest of the ride home, so thanks for that.  What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there, Mr. Elbows.  Tons of empty seats, but you choose the one next to me.  Hard to sit comfortably with your fat wing slamming in to my ribs every time you move.  Can’t you see I’m working here?  I know you can see that before you sit down.  But you don’t care. What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there incompetent mother.  Your kids been screaming since we left the station.  I mean really, why did you bring her on the train at rush hour?  Her ear shattering wails make it seem like you’re pinching her, but you just sit there with a defeated look on your face.  You should be more considerate of others!  But you don’t care.  What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there Mr. Drunk.  You can’t fool us; we know you just puked in the bathroom. We heard it. And now you are staggering around trying to find where you were sitting.  You walked past it twice.  Looks like you’re going to lose your cellphone too. It’s on the seat you can’t find.  You probably have some sob story about how you lost your job or how your wife left you or something.  Like you’re the only one who has suffered. And we have to put up with your melancholy alcoholism. But you don’t care.  What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there Mr. Crutches.  We’re trying to get home here.  Waiting for you made us late.  If you can’t move a little faster than that, you shouldn’t be getting on the train at all. So inconsiderate.  Probably on crutches because you did something stupid.  And even if you didn’t, it’s not as if it’s our fault, why should we have to wait?  But you don’t care. What the hell is wrong with you?

Hey there you douchebag blogger.  Tapping away at your laptop.  Sunglasses still on and a frown on your face.  Sitting in judgment of your fellow commuters, because they don’t fit your ideal.  Because they are talking to their mother trying to figure out how to get home.   Because they have insecurities they hide behind fancy clothes and baubles.  Because they’ve just worked 12 hours and have more work to do when they get home. But you don’t care.  Because they are just so exhausted that walking even a few more steps to another seat is just too much.  Because colic has ruined their life. Because Life is painful, and they don’t have the skills to cope.  Because disease and injury chose them, it was not chosen by them. But you don’t care.

All these people who just want to get home, just like you.  But you don’t care.

What the hell is wrong with you?


Deep Blue Funk

Five months. Five months since I stopped writing.  Why did I do that?  Take the most therapeutic thing in my life, and put it on the shelf?

There is only one real answer. The Deep Blue Funk.  We all have a monster in our lives.  Some are big, some are small.  Some of us are able to ignore it, others of us cannot.  It’s a monster of apathy and disinterest.  A vampire, it sucks away your drive.  I call mine the Deep Blue Funk.  I call him this because he is a product of my deepest emotions, and for a long time, they have been blue. 

I’ve allowed the grief that life has offered me to feed the Funk.  So I spent my days to pass in silence.

I’ve trudged to work, done my job, gone home, and sat on the couch.  I’ve watched TV instead of reading, played video games instead of writing, and spaced out instead of thinking.  I’ve put my goals aside, not because I don’t desire them, but because for the last half of a year, I haven’t really wanted anything at all.  During this time Deep Blue Funk has gotten enormous, glutting itself on my disinclination to motion.

I’ve killed Deep Blue before.  But he keeps coming back.  And now he’s on the couch with me.  He always knows when I plan on murdering him.  He’s at his most persuasive when I’m plotting his demise.

So I try again.  I have started working on my novel again.  Shortly I’ll hit Publish Post.  And hopefully it will kill Deep Blue. Maybe for good this time.

I really hate that guy.