yobech505

What Were You Thinking?

My own vocabulary:  Cortexed : verb  Kor-tekst  To plant into the memory of the brain 

I believe I know what goes on in that rather attractive head of yours.  I can tell what you are thinking just by the way you act, your actions, body language and the tone and fluctuation in your lecture.

I have experience.  I’ve been around the block more than a few circumnavigations.  I know.

Okay.  So I don’t really know.  I observe, listen, deduce, then I guess.  Hey, whatever gets the rind off the lemon. The sour part of the message is in there somewhere.  I need to find it.  So I go looking.  I put all the information I gather in my inquiry in a giant colander, shake the miscellaneous doo doo out, then I use a top scientific application and I guess.

I like to think I’m right.  It makes it easier to accept whatever happened.  It allows me to blame, accuse,  implicate and feel like it was somebody else and not me.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m not right some of the time.  Even a blind worm can find the right mud  if it has enough time before it dries out in the sun.  Of course, worms don’t have eyes, so I guess they’re all blind.  Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I can be right about it.

I have convinced the inner parts of my mind that all of this was part of some conspiracy in another’s brain.  It was deep cortexed, brought on by a series of, by themselves, barely significant actions on my part, added up to make me undesirable, a ‘friend’ rather that a lover, a threat rather than partner,  a burden rather that supportive. 

The hardest part of all of this is admitting that the information I managed to scrape together and pile up outside a mucked stall may not be accurate.  In fact, the inner workings of that mass jumble of cells and neuro transmitters is down right hostile to changing its point of view, firmly in the “My mind is made up and all evidence but mine is all baloney” mode.

Am I right?  Huh? Lets see if that can be disproved?  C’mon.  I’m waiting.

There was a time when I thought I knew everything.  I was convinced I knew the “why” in how things fell off the table.  I was this telepath, sneaking into someone’s head, predicting, anticipating, intercepting their purpose and telling them what it was. 

For this moment, I can reassure all, I don’t know everything.  But I am still not convinced that the things I’ve been saying aren’t the true reasons behind it all.   Maybe.

Solitude

From my own dictionary…soliduous  adj.  sol  id¢ ū us: defining a person who likes solitude, Someone who chooses being alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my solitude.  Sometimes.  Well, maybe I like it often.  But I also like company.  Sitting side by side with a cup of coffee, nice.   Had the best of both for a while.

It’s no mystery, then, why I designed my surrounds to that effect.  I have a comfortable place to sit and listen to the warm.  But there is room there for someone else, always.

Of course, there was someone to actually take up that space when I first designed and built it.  That was before she decided that her life had too much going on and there wasn’t room for me. The dreaded words “we can still be friends’ came out of her mouth.  The relationship killer phrase.

It was a mixture of mule manure of course.  There were other reasons, some which she didn’t and never will divulge.  It accelerates the anxiety and makes me question where things really were in the first place.  Who did I remind her of?  Which of my actions sent the note to her brain saying ‘this is not the man for you’?  Didn’t just spill the milk, kicked over the whole bucket and got the cow wet.  Still won’t cry over it though.  

Mark it “Get used to solitude” and kick the thing in the butt.  Lesson inserted where applicable.

So, I return to the solitude. 

I’ve been through it before.  I was actually quite content after the recent divorce to be soliduous. (my own word)  I got that way after the first divorce too.  (Egad.  Who am I, Charlie Sheen?)  Did okay.  And I am fading into that structure again.  Have to become comfortable with these things you know.  I know I am close.  But what if someone does come along? 

That’s a que sera.  I have done the soliduous thing pretty well and I don’t particularly dislike or dismiss it as undesirable.   So there is no need to look.   This whole thing is well beyond my ability to structure as an individual.  It needs to be part of the Karma thing.  I’m on a tack, a course that is, though not determined, balanced, or finding a way to get into balance, as close to the wind as I can get.

I need to make room for both.

An Ode to Emotions

Would I welcome the ability to hate?  It is an emotion, one opposite of love.  And I love.  But hate?  I cannot find it in my heart to hate.  It just isn’t there.

Sometimes I want to.  Hate that is.  It would make the end of love so much easier.  I guess I would have to find room for it which is not likely.

Is passion an emotion?  Perhaps.  It has to come with certain other characteristics.  Is it always love that accompanies the intensity would be a better question.  For me, yes, but it shows with a dark side.  This macabre flank takes it and skewers it with spurts of anger, despair, and even desperation.  Not much of an upside to an enhancing image.

Love is an emotion.  I feel it, felt it, lived it, enjoyed it and, at times, tried my damnedest to hate it.  Now, there’s a potential oxymoron if ever there was one.  The analogy, the implication, that you can hate love, oh what philosophers could do with that one.

Somewhere in this heart of mine, a memory of passion will linger.  The mere glow of the tip of a candle will stay in place.  The secret desire, the hidden longing, the distant and fading dream will seek, and hope, in futility, to find what once was.  But the scent of the wax, melted by the flame, will remain forever elusive, solid, keeping its shape, its aroma to itself. 

The passion of the moment, brought on by the memory, will continue to cry out, sometimes in rage, sometimes in confusion and then in a series of words, syllables, that can only lead to regret and they will say what is felt but misunderstood, heard but muffled by a listener who’s eardrums pick up only the message they want to.

Emotions.  They mess with the psyche, with the brain, and the heart.  They make untruths out to be true even when they are not.  They scramble to let go, releasing hurt, and desire only to love again.  Unhindered, because they cannot be controlled.  Hidden, yes.  Maybe suppressed. Controlled, no. 

I will not hate.  For that I am grateful.  Better put, I cannot hate.  It is an emotion my brain does not comprehend, or believe in.  It makes me tend to believe that I am an older soul than I was told I was.

For Page 6:  I don’t know as much about what a person is feeling as I profess to sometimes.  It makes for some interesting perspectives.