“…Make It A Point To Remember Them. If You Remember My Name, You Pay Me A Subtle Compliment. You Indicate That I Have Made An Impression On You. Remember My Name And You Add To My Feeling Of Importance.”
—DALE CARNEGIE
Tag Archives: Remembering
When Remembering Turns To Dwelling Turns To Suffering…
…You Know You‘re Fu*ked.
—At This Moment, I‘m Writing Just To Watch Myself Write.
I‘ve Slept Less Than 35–Hours In The Past 10–Nights COMBINED.
I‘m Irritable.
I‘m Sullen And Moody.
I‘ve Lost 15–LBS In That 10–Day Span.
I Don‘t Understand Why I Let Myself Get This Depressed.
I Know I Do It To Myself.
It‘s My Own Fault.
But, I‘M Not My Own Fault.
I Know That.
I Never Have Been.
I Was Created And Shaped By Events In My Life That Have Seriously Fu*ked-Me–Up.
Why Can‘t I Shake This?
Why Does The Past Still Cling To Me Like The Stench Of Death?
It Haunts My Day–To–Day Existence.
I Know Why.
BECAUSE I LET IT.
Period.
MY BAD.
It‘s These Memories.
I Can‘t Handle Them As Well As I‘d Like To.
As Well As I SHOULD.
It‘s Honestly Maddening.
It‘s Hard.
It‘s So Very VERY Hard.
I Go From Day To Day Seeing No Benefit From It All.
I‘ve…
…Sheesh…
…I‘ve Become My Own Worst Enemy.
Just As I Was Always TOLD I Would Be.
Just As I Always KNEW I Would Be.
It Happens To Us All At Some Point, Sure.
It’s Life.
It‘s LIVING Life.
My Moments Of Weakness And Horror Come To Me Like Flashes.
As Images.
Images A Person Should Never See.
No One.
The Thoughts Linger.
The Ill–Feelings They Cause Linger Longer.
Am I Having An Identity Crisis?
Whatever It Is, It‘s Hanging On Way Way WAY Tooo Long.
Talking To People Is Becoming More And MORE Difficult.
There Are A Couple Key People I‘d Love To Talk To.
They Just Don‘t Want To Talk To Me.
Sometimes, I Break Down And Simply MUST Talk To Someone.
Those Are The Moments When I‘m Feeling My Worst.
When I Know Something‘s Wrong Inside, And I Need To Make An Outside Connection Before I Snap.
I Feel The Worst, Though, When I Do Have To Ask For Help.
But, At The Point I Start Talking, I‘m Already Scraping The Bottom Of The Barrel For The Oxygen I Need To Survive.
I Am.
It Gets Hard To Breathe.
I Start Feeling Sorry For Myself.
I Lose Personal Control.
I Become Someone Else.
Someone I Truly Am NOT.
A Whining…
…Crying…
…Sniveling…
…Used–To–Be.
I Know I’m Only 30‘ish‘ish.
Some Attempt To Push Upon Me That I‘m Still Far Too Young To Deal With Shit As I Do.
But, Everyone‘s Different…
…Correct???
Everyone‘s Got Their Own Stopping And Starting Point.
Their Own Breaking Point.
I Guess Mine Was Just A Bit Earlier In Life Than Some Others.
I Know I Don‘t Have It That Bad.
It‘s Not Like Someone Close To Me Has Died, Or Is Dying.
It‘s Simply The Past.
A Past I‘ve Yet To Beat.
A Past I‘ve Yet To Escape From.
A Past I‘ve Yet To Come To Terms With.
A Past I‘ve Yet To Let Go Of And Move On From.
And It‘s Destroying My Present.
I Guess Some Of This Is Normal, Right?
Thinking Of It All Has Just Brought Me Down So Much.
I Just Feel Very Alone, At Times.
But, I Do Understand That Life Could Be Much Worse.
Sadly…
…My Once Remarked–Upon Eyes Are Heavy, Dark, And Tired.
My Hopeful Outlook Has Turned Bleak.
Yet, Despite It All, I Survive.
MAYBE It All Has Made Me Stronger In Some Ways?
But, At What Personal Cost?
With Age And Experience Has Also Come Fear…
…Hate…
…Despair.
Where I Once Felt Love, I Now Feel Bitterness.
Where I Once Felt Alive, I Now Feel Drained.
Where I Once Cared About Life, I Now Resent It.
So Sad, Yet, So True.
It Just Pisses Me Off To No Extent.
When Wonderful Memories Become Jaded With Time.
I Swear, It Literally Makes Me Sick.
What I Wouldn‘t Give For A Moment‘s Peace.
A Clear Mind.
A Quiet Mind.
I Know I Have Some Amazing Moments Stored In My Brain–Case.
I‘ve Just Become To Bitter To See Them.
*** ***
PLEASE, My Peeps…
…Don‘t Be Alarmed By Anything I‘ve Said.
It‘s Just A Downer Moment For Me, And I‘m Allowing You To Experience It With Me.
I Guess I Just Wanted To Vent A Bit, As I Often Do When I Get Like This.
As I‘ve Said To Y‘all Before…
…Sometimes, It‘s Not Just The BEST Therapy…
…It‘s The ONLY Therapy.
Right???
RIGHT!!!—
My Tired Eyes: Or, How Bradley Learned To Continue Worrying And Became Rutger Hauer
Oh, These Winter Blues.
Oh, How They Really Do Love Me.
Well…
…It, Honestly, Feels More Like They Really Hate Me.
Like, Really REALLY Hate Me…
…A Lot.
As I Told A Friend The Other Night…
…I Looked At My Eyes And I Said…
“I Look Tired.”
Not “Sleepy”…
…But “Tired.”
There IS A Difference.
A Difference I’m Sure Y’all Would Be Able To Distinguish Between.
I Also Told Him That My Eyes Have Seen Enough To Be Worth Four (4) More Pairs Of Them.
I’ve Seen Things With These Eyes That Would Stagger Some People.
I’ve Seen Things I’ll Never Be Able To Forget, No Matter How Hard I Try.
Exceptional Things.
Terrible Things.
Happy Things.
Horrid Things.
Some Of Which I Can Discuss, These Days.
Most Of Which I Could Never Discuss, Regardless Of The Day.
…
… … …
[[[—Right Now, Honestly, I Feel Like RUTGER HAUER At The End Of “BLADE RUNNER” When He’s On The Building’s Rooftop With HARRISON FORD.
“I’ve Seen Things You People Wouldn’t Believe…“
Ya Know It?!
The One RUTGER Eventually Closes Out By Saying:
“…All Those Moments Will Be Lost In Time, Like Tears In Rain. Time To Die.”
EXCEPT, I’m Not Dying.
AND, I Don’t I Have A Bird To Play With And Fondle.
AND, I’m Not A Replicant.
BUT, Otherwise, I’m Totally RUTGER HAUER.—]]]
… … …
…
But, They Are Tired, My Peeps.
They’re So SO Tired.
And, The More They See, The More They Experience, The More Tired They Make The Rest Of Me.
The Eyes Are Very Powerful.
Windows Into The Soul, And What-Not.
Winter Days, Like The Past Few, Really Do Bring Out My Mopey, Down-Trodden Self.
While My Very First Memory Is Of A Smell…
…Most Of My Memories Are Of That Which I’ve Witnessed.
Of Which I’ve Seen, Up-Close, In Person, Nothing Edited.
Wonders.
Horrors.
Yes, I’ve Seen AND Remember So Much In-Between…
…But, Like Most People, The Wonders AND The Horrors Stand-Out The Most.
I Remember So Much That Does Make Me Happy.
But, It All Blurs Much Easier AND Faster Than I Could’ve/Would’ve/Should’ve Expected.
It Blurs Much Easier AND Faster Than The Horrors.
The Horrors Don‘t Blur.
If Anything, They Shine More So.
They‘re More Vivid These Days Than They‘ve Ever Been.
I Close My Eyes, I See Them.
I Open My Eyes, I See Them.
Damn You, Eyes, Why Did You Ever Look?
Why Did You Ever See?
Why Did You Burn These Images Into My Mind?
They’re There Forever, Now.
To Be Recalled Over And Over Again.
Recalled For The Rest Of My Life, However Long Or Short It May Be.
Damn These Tired, Tired Eyes.
Have They Betrayed Me?
Have They Failed Me?
No.
If Anything, They’ve Worked Tooooo Well.
They’ve Picked-Up Details Most People Would Never Even Consider.
But, Damn Them Anyway.
Damn Them.
When I Sat Down To Write This, I Sincerely Didn’t Know To What End I Was Writing Toward, Nor For.
Maybe I Still Don’t.
It’s Not Finished.
At Least, It Doesn’t Feel Finished.
Not. At. All.
Not. At. All. At. All.
So…
…What‘s The Cure For Tired Eyes?
And No, I Don’t Mean Plastic Surgery On Them To Make Them Appear More Life-Like.
In Fact, I Know Of No Surgery That Could Ever Reverse The Damage.
Well…
…One Could Always Get Lobotomized.
😐
