My life is a shit show. And that can mean two things and go either way.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgivable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
-Raymond Carver

The hardest part of it all is that the stories just end. I don't want to sound insensitive by moving this considerably insignificant point to the top of the list, but I think this is really the pinnacle of it all, where in the end it all trickles down from here; as if all the pain seeping into any open space in my mind comes from here; comes from the infinitude of these stories.

It's hard because in a long time, you create many stories. Memories mostly, but stories infinitely. Stories that yes, you do remember, but stories that made you who you are. Who you are now, currently, and in the present. But when it ends, the stories end. You, meaning I, as of very recently, used to tell them. With exuberance and zeal. Without an ounce of shyness. Because they were so beautifully poetic and eloquent; and still so vividly real. They were cinematic, and terribly personal.

And all these stories grew together forming ridges and boundaries and open spaces and walls. They made a vast array into what I now call my life. But with a choice, a decision, they all end. And it's as if the wind was just completely let out them. They've deflated and become unadmirably flat. No more life, no real vitality. As if looking at the past were simply that; just looking back at the past.

Anywhere you go in this city there are stories either to be made or stories that have already been made. Personal ones. Real ones. You're either searching or you're celebrating. And at this point in my life, it's an odd coupling of both. Because I yearn to celebrate but I know that the celebration will turn into mourning. And I could earnestly search, through every block, or around every bend, and I'd find, but what I'd find would always bring me back to the final fact: the lack of life in the end.

I can no longer tell these stories. Well, at least, not out loud. I can no longer tell them, be proud of them, share them in celebration, or even just for a smile. Like I said, they have met their end. Every step I go forward, is one step away. It's as if there is this mystical line, not imagined but purely real, that was formed when decisions were made. And that line separates me from the stories. That line was the end of one thing and the birth of another. That line separates the stories from encountering my current life, it impedes them from becoming a visceral part of me. It stops them like I stopped it.

It's hard to imagine a life without them. It's hard to imagine a life without her. It's hard to compare a life, later on, being any bit subsequent. Everything, like it, or not, will be a comparison to the life lived before that line. The future will be checked by the past. My life in this city has to be relearned, but I'm worried that it is impossible to do so. I'm worried it's impossible to love again, hell, love in this city, without being constantly reminded of the corpus of love behind me. That corpus, that collection of stories and memories and sentiments that framed the backdrop of my life for the last two and a half years.

Its been a hell of a life. I like to think of it as, "My life is a shit show. And that can mean two things and go either way."


Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy