Of wantings

It’s a weird feeling being ignored.

I suppose one could pout one’s lips and shrug it off like water of a duck’s back. But no, that’ll be too easy for me.

The path of most resistance has always held a morbid fascination for me and I, like the proverbial buzzard will pick it to the bone and still remain dissatisfied by my findings. I would like to say that I don’t make a habit of living in my head, but sometimes … when it’s that cold dead sensation of knowing that people just don’t get what you’re about – when you feel even more of an oddity than you realized – the only safe place to be with is by yourself.

I chide myself sometimes for being too self-aware. And at times I remain oblivious to my surroundings when I’m picking at emotional scabs. Perhaps my own pain screams too loudly for me to listen anyone else’s – or I’m just selfish that way.

Death.

Abandonment.

Loss.

Heartache.

Heartbreak.

Depression.

Mania.

Emptiness.

They are no strangers to me. Perhaps coming from such a background as mine, it is to be expected. It should be added as well that I perpetuated and exacerbated events that led to such conclusions. For all my efforts, I found myself – allowed myself, even – thwarted. At times, after looking over at how it all went south I was perplexed that it was through my own doing.

No, I must say that I’m not blameless at all. I want many things. Most of them immaterial – that only I can work for if only I can bestir myself in that direction. I would like to be able to laugh. Really, truly laugh with joy. To be happy.

Is it so bad to want things?