Too tender

I have been, uh…eating…a new flavor of depression lately. Well, it tastes more like despondence, really, but when you break down the flavor profile, they really taste the same.

Where once it felt like a force surrounding me, and weighing upon me, it now feels like a fact that walks hand-in-hand with me. But not in that foreboding way. In that tone that you would get from a friend you’ve known for a really long time who cannot help but keep things painfully realistic and honest to the point that it almost feels like sarcastic pessimism. That kind of way.

On several occasions I’ve found myself crying, calmly, about a scene from the screen in front of me or a scene from my life. Loves, usually. Passions. Life, usually. Exasperations.

I’ve been thinking of Studstill often lately. But not in the crazed, obsessive way I thought about Payton. In a pensive, regretfully reflective but disappointed accepting kind of way. He’s happily involved with someone, by the way. Payton is. They’ve been together for approximately one year and she is displayed in his photography exhibit. Big and pretty in black and white on a brick wall for anyone over 21 to view whilst waiting at the bar. Must be nice. To have someone who thinks you’re that beautiful.

I have no reason to doubt that neither of them would fully acknowledge my presence if we occupied the same room despite the fact that we once shared the same very intimate space. It seems people have forgotten tenderness between one another. Moments shared are hushed and cast aside, as if they never occurred. Better to be hard: protected.

I want to write letters to all of my lovers and say our time together was not meaningless to me–regardless of the reasons behind its termination–and I will always have a tenderness toward them. Acknowledgement. The funny/fucked up thing is that it would probably be read as “she’s: not over it/clingy/obsessive/trying to get back with me.”

Whoops. Didn’t realize that avoid-and-ignore was the appropriate course of action. My bad. No you’re right. There is/was no genuine connection between people. You stay over there and I’ll pretend you’re not there.

And that’s the thing: I feel like I no longer have an impact. On anyone. Or anything. My existence does not matter and The Universe is moving everything away from me as if it is preparing for ________. (Death?)

There is very little room for love in my current job, though I love the principles behind what I do. As a government employee I don’t know what’s worse: hearing from citizens that the government is trying to fuck them over, or being fucked over by internal political bullshit. I visited my first [career] love yesterday, and didn’t anticipate the emotion that struck me like a blow to the back of the head. The swamp was still beautiful. Drier now. For me, it was formative in determining my career trajectory; for it, it is like I was never there. Whatever I did has been lost, forgotten, and written over. Fuck all my heart and hard work. Soon, even the name will be changed.

The place I fell in love with, will no longer exist. The people I fell in love with, no longer exist. My friends are…away, in different ways. Everyone and everything seems to be moving on and living in happier, brighter, satisfied places and I am here, not; and I am jealous because I want bright and happy and satisfied (so I planted some flowers), and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and why I can’t have those things and why God is mad.

Well…that’s what my long-term friend is telling me, at least.


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