Unfinished vignettes


I’m exhausted after a beautiful and fun-packed weekend in NYC. Right now (@12:23AM), I’m riding the MegaBus back to Boston. Thank you Jerry and Esther for the hospitality, food, and company, and contratulations Sadi on your book release! 🙂

That’s all the intro I can come up with before I pass out. Seeking guest authors. Remember Theme Thursday.

**

You get up from the pew in church. For a moment, the briefest moment, you wonder whether all of the people around you have a better grasp on what worship is, on what love is, on what God is. You tell yourself that you’ll get to it later, and without realizing it, without saying the truth to yourself out in your mind, you know that you’ll never get around to it, that the question is one that you’ll never try to find an answer to, much less succeed at answering. But you know that without me telling you, and you think that I hate you because of your seeming apathy. But I know that despair hibernates in the darkness of your heart, stays in the bowels of your soul, coaxing you with lies that he is your best friend, that he is you, that he has been with you since the beginning. Why bother him in his slumber? He’s so peaceful there, like he has been all of your conscious life. And you think that I hate you for hiding your despair, in that one flash where you wonder whether people have a better grip on religion, on truth, on the light in their souls and you realize truly, loudly, that you are protecting your despair, that the darkness inside you is your despair, not your self. But I’ll tell you: No one has it better than you do in that one moment of questioning, that one moment of self-doubt. And then you put it away, like the other times in your life, so few, where despair had to be recognized as despair and could not be disguised as the self. You hide it, and your life goes on as if nothing ever happened. And you think these moments are unique, and that they’re yours alone, and that if you forget them then they have no significance. I’ll tell you: that’s our special struggle; that’s what it means to be a human in despair.

You feel yourself impelled towards crisis. You are a creature of habit: you prefer your side of the bed; you prefer a select group of restaurants; you think within the boundaries of a specific paradigm and refuse to consider others. You know this about yourself, and yet you feel impelled towards crisis. But that’s what your college years were for, those times dripping with the epiphanic. You’ve defined yourself. You have a self. Why, then, the impellation? You grab a beer, but you’ve been here before, drinking away the dull ache of recognized meaninglessness. Still, you grab a beer, and another. You want to fuck, but only to fuck. You want to engage in the animalistic. You masturbate, but it’s not enough. Still, you’re a creature of habit.

Frustration slides into your mind. Repetition loses its significance, becomes insignificant; the constant degradation of existing things from near-perfection to gross imperfection grates on your mind. You sweep the floors, you wash your dishes, you iron your shirts, and still they become filthy, dirty, wrinkled. For the briefest moment, you wonder whether your cathartic journaling practice is enough to keep your soul clean. You do it as cyclically as you clean your house, and yet your home always seems in at least mild disrepair tending towards its own undoing. Is there a parallel between the way your house and your soul tend towards realized imperfection? Is it inescapably natural, an irresistible and universal pull, like falling into your natural place in the world? Keep sweeping; that conviction will fade soon.

You find again, though you’d forgotten, that you’re unaware how much you’re worth in material value. You’ve received a job offer, and they want to know how much you think you’re worth so that they can gauge a reasonable offer that’s hopefully less than the maximum they’ve already agreed upon. You know that they’re out to screw you without letting you see how hard they’ve done it, and you’ve done your research for the median price of a person with your skill set and experience, and now it’s down to the moment. You have to give a number that’s high enough to be negotiated down to the price you want but low enough that they’ll take your offer seriously. You wonder why companies don’t just offer a salary anymore. HR departments do the research on how much a person in your position should be paid; why do you have to haggle with them based on research you’ve gathered from bureaus who research statistics generated by HR departments? You ask yourself why they have to ask you what you think you’re worth. But you know the answer to that question; you’re frustrated that you have to equate your worth in material value. Just utter a number; it’s not that big of a deal. Whatever they offer you in return, you can survive on. You need the job—you wouldn’t have gone through all of the hooplah to get it if you didn’t—and the salary will tell you your worth without you having to know. It will at least compare with your old paycheck. Tell yourself that it’s just money; it’s only indirectly a reflection of you. HR departments are much more objective about this decision anyway.

You lost your job. Don’t cry. You’re ashamed, and you know it. You’ve lost a key affirmation for your character. Don’t cry. Wonder how you lost it. Should you have seen it coming? Were you really the worst employee around, the least significant, the most unworthy of your paycheck? Was it a matter of expediency? Does your work ethic reflect your inefficiency, and is that a lack of manliness? Don’t cry. Put that idealistic bullshit away. Find another job. You’ve got money saved up, at least three months. You haven’t asked your parents for anything in years. Your friends will understand; they’ll pity you, which will make it worse, but they’ll understand. Don’t cry. You’ve been independent for years. You haven’t required another person’s help for years. Charity comes in small doses through life, and you haven’t used your reserve. You’ve let it accumulate, and now you can call upon it, draw the account if need be. Find another job. Everything will be alright.

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