Thursday, September 17, 2015

Chill blue

I've been back for a few days now, however, as has become my motherfucking cutsom for the last five years, I returned with a horrible case of... being old.

Another Mexico trip, another parasitic intestinal infection. Damn infection has left me weak, trembly, lightheaded, and unable to maintain a healthy appetite.
At least I didn't puke on the ride here this time around.

No, rather than spend my few days in the motherland confined to the bathroom evacuating my gut in some form, I spent my days READING (imagine that shit!), writing, listening to music, walking... and crying. Good lord, did I cry. I cried like I would back in the good ol' days... like the good ol' confused, emotionally abused teenager I was 15 years ago.

Yeah, I have different versions of crying... there are different vibes to it all.
For the most part, I would say my crying sessions in my teen years, while heavy and heartbreaking, still carried this silver lining to them... a sense of hope. Something in the back of my mind would always calm me down... give me the illusion that "YO! You still have like... so MANY fucking years to fix this shit! It's going to get better! Just you watch!" I also had Tyson to calm me down during that painful time in my life... that little cow was magical.
And so... if I could assign those crying scenes a color, it'd be pastel pink.
My crying sessions in my 20's were brutal. There was intense desperation in them... there was intense, uncontrollable vomiting... so much fucking stress. SO MUCH disillusionment. So much failure. Then when the decade started coming to an end, it all went black... it all fucking died... especially once Tyson died. I felt nothing. Hopes imploded. Dreams disappeared. "WHY DID I STAY?!" type desperation. FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
Yeah... the crying meltdowns in my twenties... I wouldn't repeat those for all the fucking money in the world. Black... the darkest fucking black is what I'd assign those crying sessions. Jesus. I'm uncomfortable just recalling it.

ANYWAY, this time around, my crying was... it had almost the same feel as they did in my teens... shit, the crying was milder. There was never any sobbing, or shaking... or sound, really. I would be sitting back, usually laying face up, thinking or listening to music... and tears would begin to roll down the sides of my face. Quiet little tears. Actually, I did sigh one time.-- the only time I sat outside in my backyard where Tyson would sit beside me as I'd cry bitterly at night. I looked up at the stars-- bright and glorious as they always are in Hometown-- and sighed at the sight... then tears quietly began to run when I looked over at the empty spot Tyson would have been occupying if he were still alive. ("I'm still alone, Tyson... but unlike all the times before... there's no desperation, but instead quiet resignation that no, it will NOT get better... so I no longer feel that sense of urgency for it to 'get better'... it's a peaceful sort of quitting... of giving up. Makes it so much easier to live... to just accept")
What color would I paint these crying scenes that I now begin at 30? I'm still uncertain about the hue... but I'm leaning towards a blue. It's not dark in the sense that I feel lost and frustrated... angry and agitated... but it's also not lined brightly with hope for a positive change. It's quiet resignation that it doesn't get better... it just boils over and pacifies for a while. It's sadness... not desperately begging for an end, but calmly waiting for it. It's watching those around me experiencing happiness, and feeling genuinely happy for them, while simultaneously NOT angrily demanding why the fuck I am refused this same, seemingly common privilege... just accepting that I won't. It's chill sadness... chill blue sadness.
Nice change I welcome... I was getting tired of screaming into my pillows, anyway.

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