Confessions

I have spent most of the day crying at random intervals for reasons I can’t really explain. I have done things in my life that I can’t regret doing, and yet I can regret the fallout. Sometimes we all have to change. Sometimes that change has to bring with it a certain amount of pain. Can you imagine an existence, a person, who goes through life without crying? We are brought into the world crying, sort of an omen of things to come. Existence is a blissful agony. Sometimes we love to suffer. We think it makes us better, and maybe, in some instances, it does, but it only begs the question: “what is it about existence that necessitates this method?”

When we are infants, we cry because we are hungry, we cry because we are tired, we cry because, essentially, we really don’t know what we want. As we grow older, the reasons we cry might seem to be more diverse (i.e. the loss of a loved one, the end of a relationship, the past, a physical injury, etc.), but the reality is that we cry for exactly the same reason in all cases: we don’t know what we want. Even in the event of the death of a loved one, what we are dealing with is our inability to know if there is someplace for the soul to go, or, if you claim to “know” that, then if they went there, and if you claim to “know” that, then what to do with that part of your life that was devoted to that person. You don’t know what will happen now. I cry because I don’t know the answer to a question: “What now? What comes next?” The inability to know the future is the fate of humanity. We are always moving toward it, never away. We are pushed, impelled, prodded, poke, goaded, delivered to the future by unseen hands, and there is nothing we can do about it. We have to move. We have to change. Even in stagnation, we’re forced along by time and life to be something other.

In a very short period of time in my life, I managed to hurt brutally, callously, and unforgivably at least half a dozen of the people that mean the world to me. Because I couldn’t… what? Because I couldn’t know. I know that this is no excuse, but sometimes I feel like there is something inside me that I am heading somewhere that will make most people feel uncomfortable, and I can’t know what will happen as a result of this, and as a result of that, I can’t bring that pain on those people I love.

What the hell is a sacrifice anyway? There is no way to know whether a thing done is a sacrifice until the future, even if the intention might have been stated as sacrificial, especially because it is often that when we are dealing with in terms of sacrifice is the reality of the world of the sacrificial party. In ancient times, the sacrifice was always an animal, and that animal, without fail, was required to die. This is why Jesus was the sacrificial Lamb of God: instead of an animal, it was a human sacrifice. That is an awkward thing for me to think about. Did God initiate a human sacrifice? What does that mean? No, no time for questions like that now.

I, for some reason, was reminded that Regina Spektor is alive in the world and has produced four (pretty good) albums. This reminder sent me to the world that I had lived in only one year ago, and hearing the soundtrack of that time period in my life sent me surfing on waves of unintelligible emotions. I didn’t know so much then. I was lost in a world where I didn’t even know if my mind would be able to hold out, and I’m actually pretty sure it didn’t. I was completely out of control. Perhaps it is best if nobody knows what was going on inside my head at that time, but then again, it is nearly impossible for me to live in this world knowing that those thoughts at that time were what they were. Or, rendered perhaps more appropriately, knowing that there was no controlling my thoughts or myself or my actions, and knowing that I had no me to hold onto. I didn’t know so much.

“You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth. I have to go, I have to go. Your hair was long when we first met. Samson went back to bed not much hair left on his head he ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed, and history books forgot about us and the bible didn’t mention us. The bible didn’t mention us, not even once. You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first beneath the stars came falling on our heads, but they're just old light. They're just old light. Your hair was long when we first met. Samson came to my bed, told me that my hair was red, told me I was beautiful and came into my bed. I cut his hair myself one night, a pair of dull scissors and the yellow light. He told me that I'd done all right and kissed me till the morning light the morning light and he kissed me till the morning light. Samson went back to bed. Not much hair left on his head. Ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed. We couldn't break the columns down. No, we couldn't destroy a single one and the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn’t mention us, not even once

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first.”—Regina Spektor, Samson

Sometimes I don’t know whether I am Samson or Delilah, and sometimes I think I’m both. I guess I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe crying sometimes is what reminds me that I’m living. Maybe it is the knowledge that I have made decisions. Maybe it is the knowledge that I have screwed up some of the greatest things I’ve ever been given… consciously. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I cannot undo the hurt or the pain for any party involved. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I would probably do it all again—even if I might do it differently. Maybe it is my inability to understand my own world. Maybe it is the fact that I don’t know so many things. Maybe existence is too overwhelming sometimes, and if we don’t break down and cry at the realization of the reality of our situation, then we are not really realizing the reality that we are. Maybe it’s the fact that that which is called sacrifice by some is selfishness to others. Maybe it’s the fact that selfishness is the way we’re built (at least at some level), because if there is no self-preserved self, then there is no self to give out. Maybe I’m scared of what I can become. Maybe I’m scared of what I am. Maybe I’m scared of that which haunts the darkest corners and recesses of the deepest, dankest parts of my consciousness… those long-undusted corners existing in perpetual darkness and solitude, but existing all the same. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.