“She walks to the mailbox each morning at nine
Every day she begins she’s always one day behind
At least when it comes to the mail...”
I sleep less and less these days. Pills don’t work. The usual tricks don’t work. I kill time. I watch TV. I think – too much.
I wonder, at times like this, when so much is settling on my shoulders and my body refuses to relax and recuperate, who can I call on? Who can I ask for help? Who will listen to me vent, release, strategize? In my younger years, it was so simple. I had a little social network, long before Facebook, and that safety net would catch me every time my clumsy ass fell from the tightrope I walked towards my sanity and salvation.
“He sits in his basement from midnight ’til four
Painting pictures that nobody sees from his days in the war
The canvas is painted bright red, red
He heats up the shower, he paces the hall…”
I’m an overheating engine; any minute, I will boil over, steaming, and shut down. Five minutes, five days – who knows when? I only know it is to come. But there’s nothing now to soften the blow. There is music, and there are words humming in my throat and tears I cannot seem to shed. And I continue to think, “Where are you now?”
I send out my trademark SOS messages, the familiar Morse Code from my typing, tapping fingertips. I don’t feel I ask for much, although no one bothers to answer me so that I might inquire as to how valid that statement is. Thirty minutes of a week spent on a few emails: it’s all I need, really. I don’t need a lot of attention now; I have my big girl panties, and my resilience. Thirty minutes doesn’t seem like a lot compared to the hours we all spend on social networking sites. But apparently it is a lot. And I continue to think, “I’m so tired.”
“We wait in valleys while the clouds come in
We see no shadows, ’cause the shadow’s all there is
And we climb
And we climb…”
We social network, but we aren’t truly networking anymore. We post our statuses, tweet our tweets, tumblr a few photos, but shouting into a noisy crowd isn’t socializing at all. It’s displaying ourselves. Selling our wares. Love me, we say with each tagged photo. Find me important enough for a few minutes of time, we implore with our 140-character missives. Miss me, we pray, reblogging a quote from a depressing novel.
Contact shouldn’t be this much work. Technology meant to improve connection has ultimately rendered it near obsolete. I wonder why I bother, even with this blog. It’s just such a high mountain to climb. I squint my bloodshot eyes and set fire to the sky in my mind’s eye. I’m too tired for this.
I lay down, and admit defeat.
“The hill’s still left to climb
It’s just so high
And I’m so tired
Come on, look me in my bloodshot eyes
The clouds are all on fire…”