Wednesday, February 19, 2014

I am Albert, and I am always in my head.

I am Albert, and I am always in my head.

They lap at my feet, these waves of sadness, and all the other things my mind occupies my existence with. I think I am not willingly doing this to myself, and that my mind is trying to tell me something. More than trying to stop me from thinking straight and living my life functionally, as this is how I have initially felt it does to me, it might also be telling me something. It might be telling me to let go of the unimportant things and write something. Because writing is my way of speaking to myself. It is weird that I have to write it down and then read it to myself in order for me to get it, as opposed to how normal people do: just think about it, then do it. while it doesnt bother me to have to take this long process of writing to publishing in order to banish some demons into the far end of the universe, and it actually feels nice to tap a keyboard keys, and i think i look nice having a thinking look on my face, it requires equipment to do and i always seem to be busy (to myself, at least), and so i always put this off. 

I have a lot of handwritten notes to transfer, but most of these sentiments don’t matter anymore because they are done being current –in my life, I mean, but were helpful when I had the need to read what my mind has burned onto paper, electronic or not. I have gotten over some issues long before, thanks to writing. When you live inside your head most of the time, like I do,  the only way to clean where you live, and straighten out your furniture, --truly clean up, is to write. When you finally lift that carpet and turn on that vacuum cleaner and try to swerve that head side to side, wider and wider you go, until your arms hurt and your OCD has stopped commanding you to try and rub the concrete off the floor, the world finally is a better prison to be in. I have done that many times. Like how I would untangle my earphones multiple times per day, I try to recapture my peace of mind by speaking –or, writing, to myself.

These waves of sadness, I have had these before i dated my ex, and way before that. I might say that I am perpetually depressed: all the world is never an endlessly happy environment. After my latest break-up, I was not sadder; I was just normal, just mellow. Because I was maybe familiar with the concept of being sad, and that happiness is just as fleeting as the occasional drop of caramel swirling in my mouth. It isn’t often that I get to taste caramel, and it is also infrequent that I am happy, or thinking about how happy I am.

Because happiness is temporary. It ends. Not even longer than a quarter of any considerable unit of time. It comes, it goes, and is replaced immediately by my mellowness, which isn’t sadness. I would describe my being below-happy as being totally in touch with life. How else would I be able to deal with life, and exist as myself to others without being the quintessential wet-blanket? The devil’s advocate? The worrisome, ever-doubting, almost-always-second-guessing-himself weird nerd? That might well be my role to the world. In the future I might find myself in a different disposition but today I cannot help being this way. Do i dare try psychoanalyze myself? I would, and I have, and I always come to a conclusion that while I am not as happy as my peers, I am a bit smarter because of my ability to see the proverbial rose-colored lenses. I see the world ending as it is, with all the colors fading as the seas try to eat up the surviving land-forms. And I try to speak my mind and I have seen the faces of those who have despised me for being myself, it had never crossed my mind to change my opinion. I might have modified some words to suit the common interest, but the endpoints exist. And it isn’t as if I try to diagnose an end to everything: I give the brightest glimmer of optimism when it is foreseeable. As with everything not yet doomed, I am optimistic about all things and trying is, in itself, capable of all the merit if it goes into the lifelong annals of learning. Hence, to try and fail, and in failing, did so graciously, it is a thing to be as thankful for as a successful attempt. Have I displayed my optimism well enough and totally convinced myself of my not being the saddest person alive? Maybe. I am feeling better already, and for this capability to write I am thankful. I am not the best, but I convince myself every single time that I am. Which explains why I am always so smug, and also why people at work hate me, and this goes way farther up the list of reasons why people hate me, because people see it from afar, before they hear my overly opinionated view of how things are.