A Hurt in your pit that clunches you up over yourself like a clam forms around grain of sand.
Rolls you up fetus-style and winces your face also like a sorry-for-the-new-light newborn.
What is it?
Where’s it from?
It wasn’t there before; but before you kept tripping yourself up, kept failing to grow up, kept undermining your happiness with the collapse and turn-away, kept up the loneliness while sliding in and out of just-not-quite-getting-it and complete breakdowns. It was there all along; but you couldn’t perceive it. Now you can watch it bellyaching all day long. Now you can watch it lacing your whole being and subtly contracting you around its screaming sulking angry hurt oh so hurt self. So now you can do a better job of living, since you can see your enemy. But this enemy is you. It is some broken and inconsolable aspect of yourself. So things won’t be truly OK until you can find a way to help this Hurt and bring it back into the overall tapestry of feeling/notion/idea flows you call “me: myself, what I call myself”.
Sometimes you try to talk to other people about it, but they don’t really want to hear about it and you don’t really want to talk about it. You reach a point where you and your therapist suppose there’s a buried trauma at the core of the unknown story; and no one else seems to think that’s a subject for conversation. You find yourself floating away from your life and the people that are in it. But that’s only when you’re alone in your apartment, huddled strangely spaced over the unaccountable Hurt in your pit. At work the day soars along. In the bosom of the family, the pleasant homely chatter carries you like magic dust-devils down from your bed to the breakfast table, and then whirling to this walk and that Lego fort, and into a little evening television sharing laughter and admiration for the story structure and characterization, and finally round and round up the stairs into your narrow borrowed bed in the tidy little room with windows all around.
I don’t know what to think of you when you’re by yourself. In what sense are you broken? How much is the problem due to mistakes you make? How much is it due to brain chemistry? How much is it due to and are you even right about it being related to being smashed by some mean act forgotten to your mind but always remembered and stewed feverishly upon in your gut?
And what’s this fallen, crushed-leaf, distorted-wandering longing? It is true that there’s always some greed and vainglory in sexuality, romance, and all those fineries we like to wrap ourselves in snug and sure like a babe in a papoose and a powerful and infinite like a God in the perpetual fulfillment of all possibilities. But your demand list seems both shallow and specifically tailored to ensure you will always be alone and awkward. Of course, it wouldn’t be fair to discount how your shoulder and face instinctively twist away as your gut clenches around the Hurt when a doctor or other civil servant lays their hands upon you. On the other hand, it didn’t used to be like that. What is going on? I suppose you’ll never know. But who ever knows everything about themselves?
The country may yet crack in upon itself. Humankind may yet choke itself out. The times feel shaky and uneasy, like a fart that may not after all be containable in the firm and squarely-elegant living room sofa. And you watch yourself getting older with a quizzical expression. Time accelerates and you feel vaguely concerned. You’re doing something wrong. Part of the mistake is a mismanagement of the Hurt. But what should you do? Your life’s like a deck of cards floating in a spaceship, gently drifting apart from the tidy packed rectangle they’d begun as. And not just you. For your life is not fundamentally different from anyone else’s. We all have this split between our most private selves and what we share with even our most intimate associates. And we all get older and lose the cohesive compactness of pure-potential. And in many ways you’re so lucky. Look at the people who get skinned along the coral reef and end up torn and disfigured. Look at all the people who end up caught in cruelties that descend willy-nilly from the clear summer skies that filled that fenced in park at the bottom of the steep hill and bordered by the wide, town-bearing creek as it flows on to a great blue lake that moves like an ocean. How do you put things together? How do you live in a way that is good for yourself and others?
Author: Unknown Movie-Goer