I never thought the day would come when I would see all the joy sucked out of me. There were times I came close to it — the time when Mumu died; the time I found out that the Ultimate Decepticon, the man I had moved 10,000 miles for and given up the fast track on my career for was already married, the time when I thought the world was mocking me with “Checkmate” and I didn’t have a place to live.
But during those times, including the other times I didn’t bother to mention any more, there was some other emotion in the place of the joy that got suctioned off by the black hole of the universe. There was rage. There was passion. I felt the betrayal. I got hurt. I grieved. I gnashed my teeth and pulled my hair. In short, there was something. There was still a spark inside of me that willed me to fight on, to get to the other side, an unspoken bet with myself that I would somehow come out the victor.
I don’t feel anything right now. My life, my existence during these moments in time, can be summed up into one to-do list after another, and through it all, I’m just so detached. I’m not invested in the outcome any more. Of course, I still have my standards. It doesn’t come out an entire mess because it’s in my nature to get it as close to perfection as much as possible. But if it doesn’t go that way, and Murphy’s Law somehow finds a way to intervene, I really wouldn’t give two shits about it.
What’s the point? Some bullshit cliche that it’s not the destination; it’s the journey? Well, you don’t really go the distance unless you want to get somewhere, don’t you? Not unless it was your intent to get lost in the first place and just see where you wind up.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through the holidays. I’m pretty sure this will last until Valentine’s is over and done with, then all the tricky holidays will be lined up after that — Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. By then, I’ll probably have lots of practice pretending holidays are just any ordinary day.
This place that I am in now, if I cared enough and weren’t detached enough, I’d be afraid for myself. This is exactly the frame of mind where you either create poems that shake your soul to the bone or just snuff it out with the clinical precision of a surgeon.