It’s been a day, friends and congregants. The more stressed I am in general, the more prone to dissociating I become. So I get to swing wildly between violent emotions at the drop of a hat and also totally disconnect from reality periodically. It tends to make stressful events rather harder to manage and thus aggravate stress, as you can imagine.
I guess I perceived my trajectory a long time ago, and got comfortable with it. That’s kind of what I meant when I said “they slaughter the runners who finish this race,” back in this poem – I saw the white-picket-fence reward they wanted to give me for jumping the usual hoops, and it didn’t seem worth it. They won’t let you go back once you start, so… I’ve spent my life trying to hop over the fence, metaphorically speaking. Trying to define success a different way, measure my value by a different standard. And to people trying to win the race, or even just trying to keep up… I realize that what I’m doing looks very much like trying to lose.
I’ve seriously considered the “born to lose” tattoo – but I’ve promised my wife not to do it unless I’ve already tattooed more than 40% of the rest of my body and thus fully committed to frightening squares and old people.
Grab the flowers!
Take a handful!
They form a thundercloud of butterflies,
but you can’t see past the stars in your eyes.
You miss the moment when it’s time to go.
In Sign Language they say, “Sorry, train go.”
It means, “you missed it – don’t bother to ask.”
It means, “the help you need has come and passed.”
Like everyone else, you’re just supposed to know.
Eventually you turn into the skid.
You take the hard road just because you can.
You tattoo “born to lose” across your hands.
You leave behind the precious things you hid.
You come to love the title “also-ran,”
and each day burn down everything you did.