Sliding around, I look for a sound, but see nothing but myself in the puddle before me. There I stand on my mountain of dreams and of hopes and I wonder where I’ve gone, where I’ve been, where the hell I am. The mountain falls out from beneath me and I fall, until my face hits the ground and I realize that this is reality. This muck-filled black hole is my reality; well, my reality at this moment, for tomorrow I shall wake and there will be a new reality. There will be a new home, a new mountain of dreams that will fall away form me as well. I never learn, for if I learned to stop dreaming, I wouldn’t be here anymore. Instead I wake each morning to the bright sun that either burns my eyes or warms by body and I know from that single reaction whether my day shall be good or not.

However, each day is good in its own way, for I am living, I breathe, I smell, I see, I love; damn it, I love. I love everyone and everything more with every breath I take, and yet I confuse myself more with every beat of my metaphoric heart. Looking for the answers in every place I find, I earn nothing but an aching heart and a sore neck from craning around those sly corners. My chest puffs with pride and confidence as my human ego grows, augmenting my head until it is a dangerous size—a selfish size. Suddenly I slip and once again my head hits the ground, a nail, and I deflate, along with my head and my daily mountain of dreams. Please explain to me where I’m going with all of this, why I try, why I’m here, why this hurts so much. Why? Just the answer to the general question would be enough for me, but you can’t because no one knows the answer to that horrible ambiguous question. Why? No one knows.

Therefore, I must content myself with life in general, and I usually do. I usually find enjoyment in stupid things—a person’s smile, a good joke, a great song—but then one thing can happen—a drink, a slap, an unkind word—and my world comes crashing down. Down until I’m lying flat on the floor and wondering what hit me. Life hit me. The world hit me. Damn it, I hit me. My mind is my tool, my heart, my soul; I place so much emphasis on the stupid mass of glop that I believe it makes me and when it fails by not aiding me in comprehending something, I believe it is my fault. I believe I did it; I caused it; I, I, I . . .

This is stupid. I’m sitting here at my computer feeling sorry for myself, yet attempting to make some “poetic” and “profound” expression of my “feelings.” Jesus, I am the perfect example of human nature’s selfish trends. I’m exploiting my own depression, which is sadly misplaced anyway. How ridiculous is that? Oh well, you need a bit of ridiculousness in life in order to enjoy it at all, right?


© 2000 by Valerie Leichtman

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