La Mulatta Tragique

Una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve

10:13, Tuesday, April 3, 2007 .. 0 comments .. Link

I am writing. Look at me, I'm moving in plyometrics, producing scribble, making a tippy tap sound. But I'm still staring straight ahead as though blind, or blinded. The rough translation of the title of this piece is "a blinding light, a bolt of snow". I feel like I endured a blunt trauma and have been enduring the consequent psychological catatonia thereafter. I wrote my friend and summed up my life as such:

"I work, I stare at the computer screen, I go to the gym and stare at tiny television on a treadmill, I go home and I stare at a bigger television. Any trace of intelligence from my previous, intellectual life has been effectively sponged away."

So I write. But it doesn't feel the same. The same anesthetic sponge that has been dipped into the malignaties of my life has absorbed the outer rings of chaos -- my creativity and zest for life. Now I'm just like a child with a big fat crayon to write with.

I live a good life, but I do not pretend it is any different or less simple than someone settled in their fifties, married, married to a mortgage, calling one town home. That's the thing, people my age, in their twenties and thirties, think they are full of life by going out every weekend and drinking until they aren't shy anymore and can act how they think they're supposed to act, but rarely how they actually feel--they aren't living, they are merely exhausting their energy.

The therapist I started to see a while ago noted that I have a regard for such people as beneath me but at the same time in an enviable position, assuming these people are the grown versions of my classmates in college who drove around in pricey cars and thought that immigrants shouldn't have rights. Well maybe I do think I'm better than them, because at the age of 22 I've accomplished the ability to put on the bravely false persona most people cannot manage to construct without the facilitation of alcohol.

But maybe they are more honest after all. I have at least two masks that I wear. One that takes the place of alcohol, that is used more often than booze, to make me brreezy, approachable, friendly. The other is the one that makes me appear "normal", within the range of forgivable human quirks but not in the outskirts of "healthy behavior" where I have been classified to the satisfaction of many psychologists.
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La Mulatta Tragique

Una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve

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