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19 May 2008
63. The Loneliness of Lovelessness
Loneliness is that little bit of you that looks out at the world and sees a lack of connection; lovelessness is that bit of you that looks down into the heart of you and sees a lack of connection with the world in all that you are.
Is this what I’m experiencing right now? The loneliness of lovelessness?
I walked. My head empty, aside from images that flitted at the edges of my mind but never really made themselves present. Images of things that had happened. Over these months. Over the years. Flashing by like advertising hoardings. All peripheral. Nothing really felt, but all taken in and understood on some level. My head simply looking at the road ahead. Empty. Everything oh so peripheral. Now, I couldn’t even say what those images were, or rather, my mind won’t go there, it won’t seize any of them, it will only summarise for me in a curt and vague fashion.
If loneliness is apt to simper, then lovelessness screams. And here are my screams. What is this life of mine, my screams wonder? What has it been? What is it now? And where is it going? It all just seems like pockets of effort placed in so many different directions, all turning out to be useless, worthless. Every route has rejected me or I have rejected it. Only for me to turn round and find myself facing a route that seems even more alien, even more unlikely. Alongside it all, there’s the sense that everything is wrong. That I’m so far away from where I want to be. And that no direction takes me any closer. That I’m lost. That I’m in a maze. Impetuous feeling, or ill-considered impulses, all based upon some slight thing, or else some gaping nothing, driving me on to greater losses and a greater sense of loss. Those blasted billboards! Everywhere in life! Every route I take just another superficial advert, drawing me in, only for me to find that there’s nothing at the heart of them but deception and empty promises. Even the sense of loss inside of me seems lost. I don’t even know if I can trust how that feels! Although I know I can’t get rid of it. Maybe I’m not lost, maybe I’m found, maybe I’m right where I want to, right where I should be, but I just don’t know it! Sweet holy bejesus! What a head-fuck that would be! What a head-fuck it is! So I can’t even create paragraphs. That would imply structure. How do I structure my sense of loss? How does a maze look on paper, when you’re still stuck in it?
The great aching taunt of it all is that I know, deep down, in my very heart, that all I want is one thing. For someone to direct their love towards me and for me to direct mine back at them. I don’t want my headlights to see empty adverts that merely flash by; I want everything that I am to shine brightly on one soul that is eternally dazzled by me as I too am dazzled by it. For that one light to be indistinguishable from my light. And it’s all just light. And it’s all just love.
And if everyone else wants the same thing then why is it so hard to find? Oh, I know, others find it! You see them everywhere! The people that Kidman would look at and her entire face would shine because she saw some spark of hope in them. Not me! I’m not Kidman and I never will be! All I see is my loneliness of lovelessness staring back. And I’ve never before felt so much like a different species. The last of this kind. Here, but not really a part of anything that lies around me.
So I hurt and I’m frazzled. I’m endlessly cold. I wheeze and I feel distinctly and all-over sick. I’m an aberration. I’m a sore as much as I’m sore.
And yet I’m missing something. Some trick. But some trick that I can’t identify. There’s something I should know about love that I just can’t put my finger on. I sense it. But what is it? What is it?
I’m too sore to really think about it. I’ll just keep squirming for now and holding my stomach to stop it spinning, and trying hard not to throw-up. Trying not to allow my limbs to all disintegrate and fly away. I tell myself: try and stay together, body and soul! Try and stay together! Don’t disintegrate! Don’t detonate!
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08:30 Posted in Part Two: Getting Some Answers | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this | Tags: haunted house, ghost story, horror story, astronaut, space, nicole kidman, journal