Sick and Tired: Decisions du jour

 

… a piece I wrote some years ago … no longer pertaining to me, but still relevant for somebody I’m sure. 

How sick of being tired of being sick and tired is it possible to be? At what point does you being sick of me being sick of you turn into something other than what we each continue to do? Namely, me being sick of you being tired of me being tired of you, not to mention you being sick of me too. 

I’m tired. 

And sick.  

And wondering why we picked this path, when we could have been living our lives relaxing on a beach somewhere, enjoying the sea air, sipping soft, summer drinks and laughing about pink elephants carousing on white sands, while Dexter the Bahamian takes your hands and I follow the Dancing Queen into dreams of ecstatic delight too nasty to recount in the bright light of public sight.

Who told us that it had to be this way, and why did we choose to take the stage to perform this passion play, when our choices were infinite from the start, when every decision we’ve made has led us to playing these parts, my McBeth to yourDesdemona, my perverted tropical king to your demented ice queen. 

And please, please don’t take this the wrong way. 

The crux of my argument is not that this is how we have to stay, that our options are only what they’ve been as our relationship has evolved from lovers to enemies, never friends, but that our choice always portends an end, and that time’s remorseless march always brings us back to the start no matter how many detours we impart with meaning, no matter how many decisions du jour we regard as being the sum total of our life’s goals. The opportunity arises for us to be bold and make a change, to forgo repressing the pain and engage in the same old same – running the same, tired game – retaining our ingrained prejudices and dislikes while we slip deeper and deeper into benighted flights of distorted fantasy, breathless and faint beneath the fetid waters of a sunless sea, you holding on to me, as I drag you deeper and deeper, the tears of my weeping a tribute to my stalled seeking, the heights an ever-diminishing reward, the nightly reality show a narcotic shot to the soul, anesthetizing us both till we’re far too old to truly know, bent and decripit beneath the bruising weight of life’s chaffing body blows.

Pointing out the obvious choice does not negate your voice nor does it obfuscate the shrill tenor of mine, building to a bone-vibrating and scintillating whine that you insist gets on your very last nerve, as if the verve of my gall has cast a pall on your vision, leaving your view of the world rent by a brief frisson of disquiet, your subsequent decision to pay more attention to my words rather than my meaning seeming to bring us to the same old place, which is really such a waste, since it’s never too late to change. 

Can we take a collective breath?

Put our situation to the test?

Try to figure out if what we’re experiencing is commiserate with the rest of humanity? Or whether, in our vanity, our problems are singular and unique, a death-defying leap into the singularity of singular experience, rent from the very fabric of time and space?

A race to the dark side of the room, an indication of heartache felt too soon?  Embraced like distaste, dripping like blood in a flood of pustulant droplets of gloom, prognostications of death, doom and deceit, to rise like a remorseless tide to cover our feet, knees and thighs, sucking out our souls like marrow from broken and desperate eyes. 

Please hold me in the dark while I rest, dab the tears from my cheek and give me relief from loving you, treat me like a thief who has stolen your belief in a higher source, a lover who has obscured your connection to the Force and like Obi Wan dissipating beneath Vader’s sword of light, my resistance evaporates like darkness in the night. 

My delight, like pain, a rain of soothing heartbreak on the rise. No longer weary but still leery of loving you, I think of how you do the things you do, and how you love me too, through the visceral reflection of lived experience you show and prove, the truth a shining avatar, a soothing interlude between lifetimes of disfunctional crimes against the spirit.

I hear it, in you, rising like conscious thought. 

You’ve been tired too, and ill, my sickness contagious like the flu. But a healing is coming, like Saints running down church aisles, feeling the spirit all the while trying to be in style. Rest now, tortured heart calmed by my touch. 

Sleep now, and let the day break in our sight. Weep now, and let our fears forever take flight.


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One response to “Sick and Tired: Decisions du jour

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