|Writing about what you've lost is an addiction...
||[Jan. 8th, 2005|12:45 am]
This isn't the first post I've written today. Like most days, I began a post at the beginning of the day, got about 1/3 of the way through and never ended up finishing it. Sometimes I'll post it private and come back later to finish it up, but usually the post is simply lost to time. Let's see if I have enough glue to put together the shards of thought left over in my head from this last week...
This time of year I find myself listening to "A Long December" from Counting Crows a bit too much. Then again, I probably listen to it all year long more than I should and simply notice it during the winter time because everyone else seems to be listening to it in December. There used to be an offsite tool for LJ that you could use to search for people listening to the same tracks as you. I'm curious how many people list it as their Current Music between November and February. I could use google for an approximate list, but I'm lazy.
The more time I've spent alone lately, the more I've peeled from the onion that is my psyche. These days are spent looking at myself and others with an eye that I used to avoid turning on people. One of the biggest problems with how I interact with others is that no one knows the same Sean as anyone else. I realize that everyone can say that about themselves, that no two people know any one person in the same way. I'm simply amazed by how different the Sean is to someone I've known for years from the Sean that's been friends with someone for a year, for six months, for my entire life. Every morning the sun rises on a different person that it rose for the day before. Every day the puzzle pieces that I've chosen to pass out have been slightly altered. This wouldn't be so bad if everyone was working on the same puzzle. Unfortunately for the world at large, no two puzzles are alike, no two pictures are exactly the same. Say you've got 10 people and one giant puzzle. Each person is given a portion of that puzzle, but no one tells them that the puzzles can be interlocked and that they overlap in places. Without comparing notes, no one will ever see the whole image and the fat kid at the mall will never get a chance to see the 3-D image of the walrus. Handing away those puzzle pieces is a delicate process that I've never gotten the hang of. I regret having given away so much prematurely to a few people. To others, I wish I'd given away more. Maybe this is the core reason of why I'm uncomfortable with the idea of seeing a therapist of some sort. Therapy requires that I let someone look at the box that all the pieces come in and see the full picture. As things are now, at least I can control who gets what pieces and how much of the larger picture they can see. Enough with this extended metaphor, I've grown bored with it...
Notes to random people that are too cryptic for anyone to figure out (including the Sean of the Future):
For as much as you think you've changed, you haven't. Do you think I didn't know what I was doing all those nights? I gave up before you could get bored playing the nurturing mother figure. I'm sorry I could take care of myself and didn't need a mother hen or a Swain to make sure that I could feel complete. Congratulations on being too blind to see the road you've been driving down for years. I wish I'd have been smart enough to put the puzzle box back in the closet instead of giving in to your games, but I foolishly gave in to the idea that I might be able to build something real, to free you from the cycle. I take on hopeless causes far more often than I should.
I got your letter yesterday and it made me laugh. Some day I should just come clean with you and let you know how much you outright bother me. The friend I knew is still there, somewhere in the chaos. These days I just don't have the time to sift through all of your personalities to spend time with the you that I like. It's hard enough dealing with the random rolls of my own six-sided psyche, much less trying to interpret which of a thousand personalities is talking to me at any given moment. Once upon a time it was cute and endearing in a creepy kind of way, but those days have long past. As much as I want to be friends and as much as I care about you, I can't be the single-serving friend that you want me to be, malleable to whatever mood suits the situation. One more lost cause that I hoped that being a loyal friend would help repair. These days I'm learning that the power of destruction has greater power to do good than being a lapdog doormat.
Time is a funny thing. I was a wreck in those days, not that I'm much better now. Hell, we were a wreck, but of all the regrets I have in life, that wasn't one of them. What would've happened if none of it had ever happened? What would've happened if we'd met later in life? As much as I'd like to claim that I'm the same as I've always been, I still blame you for who I've become, for better or worse. Times have changed and distance has chipped away at our friendship, but I'd like to believe that you're still one of the most important people in my life and one of my closest friends, something I'm thankful for.
I'm a moron and I apologize for that. I'd take the time to explain but it doesn't really matter. In another time and place, it might have been a better idea, but in the here and now, I can accept things for what they are as it's probably for the best.
Schmuckery is a curse that I'm afraid was passed down to me by my father and his family. I've tried to overcome it over the years. These days I just try to whack the mole before it comes out and sees it's shadow.