Honest Hour
I fear the atrophy; I haven't written a word worth reading in nearly a year now. What I fear most is the apathy—I’ve never believed in writer’s block. That blank period is just the space between the pen and paper, fingers and keys. The last year bent me over the table and fucked me so hard I still can’t walk straight. My legs are bowed, and the sweat from Florida drips down across my Portland brow. The skinny palms lent no shade, and the dark gray overcast is the cruelest of all umbrellas.
I don’t feel like I used to. Maybe I’ve finally cracked the code of self-defense—locking my heart in a high tower on a hilltop, out of reach even to me. I knew running wouldn’t fix it, but I had to leave, if only to clear my head. Most of my life has been about trying to clear my head. How many more restarts? How many catastrophic failures do I still have inside me?
I’m concerning myself with apathy again, as if atrophy isn’t the real killer. I’ve found myself more distracted than usual, forgoing certainty and living day to day like a gutter punk begging for change. I sit idle on concrete squares, feeling the vibration of the City Car underneath me as it barrels down the urban track. I admire that car—it never deviates from the rail, turning only when permitted. I think it could drive itself.
The sun has been unseasonably bright and balmy in Gloom City. I was expecting weeks-long stretches of spring rain, but to my surprise, the roses have stayed dry and are beginning to bloom. Winter is done, defeated by the might of vernal intention. A year ago, I was on my ass in Heritage Park, a pint of Jim Beam in my pocket, hoping someone would notice me. What a time.
I’m reminded of a story—one far too long to retell—but suffice it to say the profundity is overwhelming and particularly applicable to what I’m trying to say.
There’s a point in every relationship and interaction that, once crossed, is impossible to return from. One could question the motives and intent of the person who dares to try, yet we all do—we all hope to re-cross a certain line and patch or fix whatever pushed us there. But to no avail. Across all humanity, it’s our memory, our ability to recollect and inject hindsight, that becomes our burden.
I don’t believe in fate or “meant to be.” I think those are phrases we tell ourselves—comforting lies. Only the naïve believe them to be true. We say them to soften whatever abuse regret may unleash upon us, poisoning perception—the venom hits your vision first.
You have the power to destroy as much as you do to create. It’s a choice—one you often make without even realizing it.
Have you ever thought maybe you’re the problem? Is it possible your inability to live consistently is the consequence of poor past decisions and extreme lapses in judgment?
If you’re asking whether I trust myself—the short answer is no.
I guess I’m asking more than that. For instance, do you believe that even with perfect judgment, you’d still wouldn’t self-sabotage? Are you drawn to conflict so you can create scenarios where self-immolation feels justified? Are you afraid to be happy? Are you running from the thing that would finally make you stop running? Are you evading that?
Chicken or the egg, Doc? How can I know for sure? I think we convince ourselves there are things we need, and when we get them, we find they’re insufficient. It’s a gluttonous appetite for satisfaction—probably why it’s a mortal sin.
Interesting to hear you talk about sin. I don’t take you for a religious man.
I’m not. But I think I’d like to be. I think I fell out of favor with God somewhere in the late naughts of my teenage years. I don’t think God forgives—and maybe that’s why I can’t forgive myself. Forgiveness feels foreign to God, like an ingredient He forgot when making us. I think there’s a poison in me, and my body needs it—craves it, creates it when the supply runs low. Sometimes it feels like I’m watching myself live—like an audience member in a play I can’t remember the name of.
What’s this poison? You must have a more pinpointed definition of what plagues you.
Maybe it’s regret—but that’s too simple. I think it’s the lack of coexistence between who I believe I am, who I should be, and who I actually am.
And who should you be?
Not who I believe I am.
Ah, more conflict.
Touché.
Everything in life is a choice—even the ones that feel like compulsion. You mentioned God leaving forgiveness out of our makeup, but that’s not entirely true. You have no problem forgiving others. It’s yourself you can’t forgive. It’s been this way for years. You’ve forgiven everyone—even the ones who didn’t deserve it. And through it all, you’ve built this fortress around a core of violent self-hatred that influences every choice you make. And in the haze of that, you’ve protected yourself—from realizing it, from facing it. Because if you forgave yourself, you’d lose your scapegoat. You’d have no one to blame. That disdain—it’s not a badge you should be wearing.
Well, that’s a lot to think about. Where are we at time-wise?
You’re doing it now—right now—you’re running again. Just when I think we’re close, you slip away like a fish on dry land. I wonder what it’ll take for you to finally stop running away—and start running toward something.
You realize you have to live, right? Your constitution won’t let you kill yourself, so you’re forced to live. And it seems to me you want to make that life as conflicted and difficult as possible. Tell me I’m wrong.
On the subject of relationships—
You’re deflecting again.
On the subject of relationships, I’ve noticed patterns. The observations have only taught me to recalibrate my intentions. The person who cares less has the power—it’s zero-sum. The more I try to do things right, the more I get in my own way.
In your way—or theirs? That doesn’t sound like a situation that’s right for you.
When it’s all I seem to encounter, it’s hard to believe otherwise.
Maybe that’s on you. Maybe you’re not ready for it.
Have you ever thought that for some things to work, others must not?
We’re deviating—mind being less abstract?
Where are we at time-wise?
There you go again. In here, can you shed the skin you wear out there? Give me an honest hour.
I think I’ve established my willingness to be honest.
What’s that Dostoevsky quote?
“When you lie to yourself, you lose your ability to love.”
I’m familiar. And it’s probably true. But you skipped a step. You lose your ability to love because you’ve lost the ability to recognize truth. I can still recognize truth—I see it everywhere. Most people hate truth—that’s why they’ve lost their ability to love. When I say love, I don’t mean the generic kind. I mean deep love. Love outside of romance or offspring, deeper than all that love assumes. They are the people who buy junk but sell antiques. Who live in garden apartments but have no gardens. These are the ones waging war against language. Not to kill it, but to distort it—bend it toward their version of the truth. The difference is: I don’t create truth. I aim to recognize it.
Quite profound. You must fancy yourself a philosopher.
Somewhat, yes. Somewhat of a degenerate dirtbag too—but I think any philosopher worth their weight is, or was.
Let’s revisit what you said earlier—about who you are vs. who you should be.
Yeah, sure.
Care to explore?
Sure. Let’s explore. There’s a way a man should be. The world is fucked because men have abandoned that station—and feel no shame. I’ve abandoned it too. But I do feel shame. I know how I am. I haven’t lost sight of how I should be.
And how should you be?
Not what I am.
You think you’re slick?
Okay, okay—I don’t know how a man should be. But the answer reveals itself more and more in understanding what he is not.
And?
I suppose I have no answer.
Good work. Get out of here.
Cover Art: Apache Dinner - Louis Legrand
