Post-Mortem Twinges

Loneliness is lonely.

I'm watching my uncle's dog for a week and a half, and it's rather embarrassing how enjoyable it is to have a pair of attentive ears to talk to, even if she doesn't understand a word of what I say. And I have no idea what she says back. Still, it doesn't hold us from having grand conversations.

We actually seldom have any conversations, and I'm usually just the one yammering away while she looks at me quizzically. Still, I like the idea of having a pseudo chat with this goofy ball of fur.

What else is there to say, really? I'm trying to fill in a hole, one grain of sand at a time. Some days I'm bitter, some days remorseful, some days sullen. All days lonely.

Once upon a time I was really good at being alone. I was thinking back to some of my time in New York where there'd be entire weeks where I wouldn't actually speak to anyone outside of classwork. Maybe a sheepish 'thanks' to the apathetic cashier at a grocery store.

Mind you, being in such a saturated environment helps you to stay distracted, and spending lots of time on the subway means you can observe and project yourself into the lives of others. Lots of strange faces that draw you in to nonchalantly eavesdrop their strange words. Everyone living each other's lives, until the stop comes and you hop into someone else's orbit.

---

Sometimes it kinda sucks how an autopsy is the best window into life. Only after something is over, dead, and ended can you understand what its existence was. Like being an archaeologist of your own life, the words and phrases to express what you were feeling can only be found if they've been covered in dust for a time.

I'm forcing this metaphor, apparently. Those three sentences all pretty much say the same thing and I had to toil over each one. The point is this: I think it's kinda sad that you can only best understand something in retrospection long after it has ended. You don't have any of the clarity you needed when it was actually still alive and breathing.

Kinda makes me feel that we're all perpetually overwhelmed four-year-olds standing in the middle of the midway. We're going through life with our eyes glazed over and mouths slightly agape at the spectacle of it all, and we'll have no idea what actually happened until the show's over.

Part of me wishes I could have said the words and clarity I have now when they were most relevant. But that wouldn't be life, would it? That'd be like reading a walkthrough before playing the game. No alarms and no surprises, and everything would be just a little bit too easy and expected.

Can I stop writing now? I'm going to stop writing now. I feel like I'm going in circles and just rehashing things. I guess that's what happens when you're so preoccupied with tiny and substance-less ideas that feel bigger then they are when sitting on your shoulders.
-Cril

I sung you, your twinges
I suffered you, your tattletales
And when you broke sideways
I wanted you, I needed you
Oh-oh, to make me better
Oh-oh, to make me better

But we're not so starry-eyed anymore
Like the perfect paramour you were in your letters
And won't it all just come around and make you
Let it all unbreak you to the day that you met her
And it'd make you better
Did it make you better?
Make you better

And all I wanted was a sliver to call mine
And all I wanted was a shimmer in your shine
To make me bright

'Cause we're not so starry-eyed anymore
Like the perfect paramour you were in your letters
Won't it all just come around and make you
Let it all unbreak you to the days you met her
But it'd make you better
It'd make you better

The Decemberists - Make You Better