So, as I sit here on Day 2almost3, I have spent some time considering obsession. The thought. The concept. The action. All of it.
It takes many forms, obsession. Don’t think that you’ve seen it in only one guise or as one phenomenon. It is all that we know as addiction, or infatuation, or gut wrenching anxiety or even hope. All of these are obsession in their own way. And don’t think that they are all of one ilk. There is no dark and light in obsession. There is a sea of gray and myriad white lies that it tells us and oh so many fantastic ways it can insinuate itself into our psyches.
Is it addiction? I’ve been addicted to smoking for years. I was/am a smoker. Sometimes proud, sometimes shamed. Sometimes just indifferent. It was my companion. After stress (the one time I was held up, I had a smoke immediately after). After sex (even if I had to sneak one in, I knew it was out there for me, waiting). But also with the mundane. Coffee, and after dinner, and just to get a break in the action. It was there, and could still be. And I know that there is much to blame on the “thing itself”. But I’ve used many addicting substances, both occasionally and exclusively (coffee, anyone)? And I don’t blame Maxwell House. I just love it. And now, when I just can’t do it anymore, I realize that… although I do have a headache, and may find myself irritable, it just doesn’t bother me as it has in the past. My obsession was overcome by my bleeding gums. Obsession is convenience.
Is it infatuation? Certainly this rears its ugly head time and again in my happy world. I’ve been deeply in love. I’ve been distantly in love. I’ve been spurned and have spurned (mostly, to be fair, I’ve been spurned). I’ve been convinced that my life will never fulfill it’s destiny because of this missed opportunity or that ill-timed advance. But as it happened, the world hasn’t stopped spinning yet. I haven’t become a pauper on the street with no hope of immortality. I’m not alone. But lord had you told me that 2 months ago, or 3 or 4 years ago, or 13 years ago, I would never have believed you. Maybe I have missed something that time will eventually reveal to me. But, as of tonight, it appears to be obsession.
Is it anxiety or even hope? Here, my friends, is the trickiest of questions. Anxiety is my constant companion. My familiar. The creature on my shoulder reminding me to be worried about this, and take heed of that and consider if maybe, just maybe… it was something I did. Or didn’t do. Or could have done differently. It drives me to drink and to smoke and to scream loudly in my car when no one is watching. Or at very least when the only people watching are those I could give a shit about. Is it obsession? With my life? With my concern of lack of life? Am I just obsessed with what, what, what the fuck is wrong with me? And here’s the interlude- what if it’s also hope? Obsession might be the tiny rabbit breading the voices in my head. But maybe it’s also the little hive from where my hopes emerge. You know the ones I’m talking about. Or maybe you don’t. Those little random hopes that walk hand and hand with my anxieties, like two happy children in a playground. One reminding me of what went wrong, and one telling me that – don’t worry boy, it’ll all be OK in time. My most recent obsession was female. She is ultimately irrelevant. Laden with baggage and likely shallower then a tide pool. But for some stupid reason, I adored her. And then of course, my friends from visited. Skipping into my heart and mind they kicked my soul around, laughed and pointed fingers, and then, just as they’re leaving, are sure to remind me that “It might have been something you said. Maybe you’re just really bad in the sack.” But it’s sure to leave with “what is meant to happen will happen. You never know what next month/year, etc will bring”. Like I need some fantasy running around in my head to amuse me. It’s not amusing dammit! Haven’t I made that clear in the past HALF of my life? You know what fantasy I need? That between now and Thursday I win the lottery and they invent some device to beam mature bone into my mouth that automatically spawns new teeth. That’s what I want keeping me up at night. Fucking obsession. Never does pay attention.
I don’t know. Is it just me? Maybe I’m the only one who is confounded by this strange creature. But I doubt it. Is it the spectre of the post-modern? Perhaps I can don my derrida cloak and deconstruct I will find some light at the end of my obsessed tunnel. But that’s hooey, and I think we all know it. Some fantastic notion that, if properly broken down we’ll find some inkling, some shred of the obvious and viewable and epistemological that we’ve missed. Some reason that we feel this way, that we’re owned and controlled and wander off in our heads during the day and are kept up at night. But that’s not it, is it? In the end we’re just victims of ourselves. We’re just obsessed.
Perhaps Obsession, perhaps you’re like a broken bone. We all hate you, and you’re painful as fuck, but invariably you happen to almost everyone once. And we heal with time and patience and some immobility. Or perhaps Obsession… perhaps you are like a bowel movement. Perhaps you a stinking pile of shit. You smell and are disgusting and not typically to be discussed. But you happen to everyone, everywhere in the world every day. And if you stopped happening, we’d all die.
No comments:
Post a Comment