The wanderer

Suggested background noise for this entry: Silent Spring by Massive Attack.

While my sense of irony has found ample nourishment in recent events, other cravings still persist. Ones I doubt will ever be put to rest. That's just the way I am.

It's ridiculously hard to comprehend how damn skillful I can be at falling from one happy accident to the next. No road map or tour guide aside from my dick in my pants, but there I go. A gallant swagger towards the next adventure. Flip the page and see me there, dangling by my ankle from a tree with a gleeful swing, with no real clue that I might be in peril. Nor that whoever might happen to stand under me will be crushed if and when the branch snaps.

Not long after, though, past mistakes creep into my HUD and I start anticipating the forthcoming of aches and bruises. Then things start to come apart. Seams unravel and prickly realizations find their way into the light. In an effort to make amends and fix the situation I tend to be as capable and efficient as a panzer on the open sea.

I hear the curtain call and my swagger shrinks to awkward, stumbling steps as I walk away. Shortly thereafter follows the stop-motion idiocy. Rewind, pause, examine, interpret, repeat. In short: relive and cringe. An exercise as futile as it is pathetic. Rarely, if ever, are diamonds of true knowledge hidden in the rough I speak of. You'd need the other person's eyes to accompany your own to spot them. Still, as you know, it's not exactly easy to stop yourself from dissecting the remains of your failures, no matter how dull the blade is and how much your hands are shaking.

The solitary looks for the favor of fortune,
For serene waters and a welcoming haven.
But his lot is to plough the wintry seas.
An exile's fate is decreed for him.

Some time ago I allowed myself but a drop of infatuation and my tongue still feels limp from the paralyzing aftereffect. I don't know how or why she, out of all of them, had such an impact. It was completely unexpected and remains an unanswered riddle. I don't know how it overcame me. Perhaps I was naive enough to think my desire would be enough to reap some unforeseen reward and I mistook her for the rainbow's end on this leg of the journey. For a brief moment it felt so good I allowed my foot to ease up on the brake. Unfortunately, knowing yours truly, that's a sure-fire way to cause a major accident.

I feel I've justified my earlier fears and burnt a bridge, even though my intent - which I'm admitting here as much to myself as to you - was nothing more than a rather stumbling attempt at seeking some sort of attention. Seeking a token of interest, compassion... something. Anything. A measure of redemption by making the other person feel - what? Something.


I've ventured down this road before and even though I was helpless to stop myself from resorting to old and lacklustre means of backhanded communication, the past is a resounding reminder that the outcome will most likely be a bitter and stifling one. I tried to shelter myself by shutting her out, yet I was and remain fully aware that it will have no such effect. It offers no more than an apt opportunity to smack one's self in the forehead and do a Homer Simpson impression.

Perhaps some unresolved fear of drowning in the quicksand of complacency makes me burn brightest for those who seem most ill-equipped to meet me halfway. Perhaps Henry Rollins tapped a surprising nerve when he said there is no knowledge without mileage, with my subconcious interpretation being that the pot of gold surely can't be filled to the brim unless I've broken myself into pieces while making my way to it. God, I hope I'm wrong.

There is none with whom to speak,
No one alive who will understand.
Best to hide sorrow in one's chest.
The storms of fate suffice to busy me.

Where does the irony come into play, then? In the simple fact that I feel I've now fallen into a very similar situation with the tables turned. My feet are dragging me to a place of solitude where no one can bring me sorrow or pain and vice versa, yet as I'm two paces from the door, affection greets me with an overpowering embrace. Affection I simply don't think I can offer in return.

After all these recent shitstorms everything in me is screaming for removal and isolation to allow myself time and perspective to hunt down my concentration. The wall of noise is sometimes broken by a faint whimper with pleas for companionship, but to be honest, that voice hasn't served me one bit lately and I'm beginning to question its tone. I am simply divided into too many asymmetric slices to function as someone else's counterpart.

But I don't want to be that guy. More to the point, I'm utterly terrified of being him. Not only because I feel I have more than enough unsettled scores in my history with absolutely no need to concoct new ones, but also because I believe in the boomerang effect of one's actions. It's all tied to my sense of balance and notions of karma's blind nature. As naive and unfulfilling as it may be, it gives me strength. But it can also be a vessel for second-guessing yourself and every move you make until you simply choose to ignore it and withstand whatever follows.

Yet I am without answers. When will the desire to leave another without scars turn into a charade, motivated by virtuous concern as it may be? When will good intentions become but a paved way for inevitably causing someone pain, no matter how involuntarily? These kinds of questions stall my engine. So I wait, contemplate, evaluate. To what end? Ask the snake swallowing its tail.

The wise man cloaks his heart:
Steadfastness and temperance.
He does well to dissemble his feelings.
Let his faith rest in that alone.

To bring this to a close, I would like to point out that it is not my intent to fill the weightless pages of this journal with constant coverage of my romantic and wounded sides locking horns in an eternal battle royale. Unfortunately these are the thoughts that have been finding me first in the night as of late. In due time this season, too, shall pass, giving way to whatever follows in its wake. Try to bear with me until then.

Excerpts from an interpretation of the poem The Wanderer.