Caught in amber
I live in a wonderful home in the mountains of California. I enjoy coming home from my activities, and treasure the beauty of the internal architecture. As I type I'm watching the just-past-full Buck moon. It floats in the center of a window like an optical scanner.
Paradox: this is also my prison. I have never felt as lonely. I have never been less certain of why I am here. I do not trust my relationship with others and even my new cat struggles to understand how to bring me into his consciousness. I can't keep his gender straight when I use terms of endearment.
I don't sense improvement anywhere. My favorite activities are small scale home improvement projects—hanging art, upgrading bathroom fixtures.
If we desire purposeful lives, I don't think this is what's intended. It seems instead to be a guided tour of slapdash efforts to control my small environment. Outside, where foul men exist, is simply too soul-destroying.
I cannot possibly share cultural trauma with a species so focused on self-annihilation. I am not of this ilk. I am fragile and sensitive and overwhelmed by loss. I doubt I'm an anachronism because I doubt human history has experienced a period when male traits like these were celebrated, valued, or even noted. Romantic poets drown early—or rewrite their preludes at decades-long intervals.
I am stuck. I am fucked. I am locked in the amber I poured over my own head.
Paradox: this is also my prison. I have never felt as lonely. I have never been less certain of why I am here. I do not trust my relationship with others and even my new cat struggles to understand how to bring me into his consciousness. I can't keep his gender straight when I use terms of endearment.
I don't sense improvement anywhere. My favorite activities are small scale home improvement projects—hanging art, upgrading bathroom fixtures.
If we desire purposeful lives, I don't think this is what's intended. It seems instead to be a guided tour of slapdash efforts to control my small environment. Outside, where foul men exist, is simply too soul-destroying.
I cannot possibly share cultural trauma with a species so focused on self-annihilation. I am not of this ilk. I am fragile and sensitive and overwhelmed by loss. I doubt I'm an anachronism because I doubt human history has experienced a period when male traits like these were celebrated, valued, or even noted. Romantic poets drown early—or rewrite their preludes at decades-long intervals.
I am stuck. I am fucked. I am locked in the amber I poured over my own head.
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