Sunday, November 18, 2012

tragedy now dances (to the tune of dubstep)

*thump* *thump* Three years ago, healing was easy. Sure, it was a fairly arduous trip along the darker edge of the emotional spectrum, but it was foolproof. It was methodical, logical, and calculative. It was as much numbers as it was words. *boop dhee bhoop* Denial, anger, passive-aggression, rationalization, active-aggression, "the volcano", *boop dhee bhoop* de-rationalization, the bargain, more anger, guilt, more anger, re-rationalization,*boop dhee bhoop* self-destruction, burnout, rock-bottom, a little alexithymia, disconnection, "the zoom-out", "the crawl out of the abyss", gravity, the gift of selective memory... and finally, *boop dhee bhoop* the sutures. To come out almost fully-functional, albeit stapled/glued/taped together, wasn't altogether a bad use of one's spare time. An exercise in histrionics, one might say, but certainly not futility. *zeeeee thump* The last time around, healing was pared down to something nearly perfunctory. A straight-up burnout made healing unnecessary. *boom zeeeh boom* To survive, and quickly distance oneself was enough. It was exhaustion, and running out alone into a winter night. It was a comical juxtaposition of Shirley Manson's voice, and a surge of gravely non-comical sentiment. After years of a half-assed effort, it was 15 minutes of silence and a little perspective. That was all. *bheeeeeeeee zooooorrrb* But today, the cold isn't enough, and neither is the night. Even the Manson of the darker variety isn't enough, and a life lived on borrowed time certainly isn't. Healing was never a hard thing to do. The trouble, it seems, was always in wanting to. *thump* *thump* *thump* 

*fades out* 

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