One does get tired.
Existentially. One has burnt the notes, one more time. But, then . . . I’m fine. I’m fine.
But one can’t help but feel, sometimes, one is speaking a language difficult for others to comprehend. Oh well, we all fade away. When. Not if.
I don’t pretend to be other than I am. But all of my truth belongs to me. What I show to you, also belongs to me. How you respond, belongs to you. How I react to your response – my responsibility. See what we did there? Response-ability.
When I was fifteen, still in high school, I was doing a show. The cast included a few “jocks” who were less than fond of me. I was still in hiding. I was being regularly beaten up. Abused. Bullied. I asked for help; family and counselor answered: “Can’t you just try to be like the other boys.”
I had been trying my whole life. I didn’t know HOW to be like other boys. Still, I thought, for a few moments, some of those “jocks” in the cast had come to semi-accept me. One of them was -in fact – sneaking into my house at night, fucking around with me, down-low of course, in ways he could claim to himself were not reciprocal. Until, after final dress rehearsal, late that night, he did for me something I’d only done for him. Maybe, the other boys were like me? A little?
I had shared my love for Patti Smith with the cast. The Horses album. I had it in dressing room backstage, propped in front of my mirror space. Opening night, I came into dressing room. Saw the album had been moved. Was flat on table. Picked it up. Someone had broken the album into many pieces and placed it back into the sleeve, so when I picked it up, shards fell onto the table.
I knew who’d done it. He’d done it. Or, been part of it.
One does get tired of wanting to believe, picking up one’s treasures, finding them in shards. Existentially exhausted. Existentaustion.