there are times i am utterly appalled by myself. it’s like a switch, a jekyll hyde, and boom, i’m the biggest asshole there is.

the best days are the busiest, the days where there is no rest, constant movement, one thing onto the next, not stopping, no thought, just being, selfless, no introspection, just being, a father, a lover, a gourmand (where the heck did she pull that one?), just moving, pure and unadulterated
a good day this day, not thinking.

at best, i am a fever dream that people wake up out of and are glad to have recovered. at worst, i am a thick infected piece of their lung they’ve coughed up and are embarrassed for having done so.

turned 36 today, i’m halfway to the finish line.
i played wii with my daughter and served as a walker to my son.
went to the park and baked in the sun with a little handball.
watched some comedies, ate some mediocre maki rolls and some really bad pad-thai.
my wife laid beside me exhausted and muttered i love you before passing out.
it is a good life and i really deserve no part of it.

as i approach 36, the mid point of this life (i was born in 1972, it makes sense to me that i’ll go at 72), i cannot let go, ever more, never letting go of any thing, only letting go of people, no, that’s not right, i have a hard time facing, not letting go, but holding on to, admitting and accepting, what an utter failure i am as a human being, what a utter shit i am and always have been, how profoundly disappointed i am in myself and everything i have done.
i’m just barely hang onto my humanity here, i’m just barely passing.

a certain kind of shock. a mourning. a cruel sensibility. you are worthless. you mean nothing. you know nothing. you’ve done nothing. you’ve brought children into the world you do not know how to love, you do not know how to teach. there is nothing extraordinary about you. you should be ashamed of yourself. for breathing. how dare you. how fucking dare you.

leave me here in this puddle, this brain damage, this twisted syringe. there is no hope here, there is no kindness. i am twisted sheet metal and serrated edge, i am maggots feasting on a corpse, i am dead and lurking. my daughter is all life and desire and a frequency of that shatters me. my son is all need and happiness and incessant joy that ruptures a room. my wife is patience, kindness and grace that lynchpins the whole thing together. and i am the tear. i am the disruption. i am its entropy.

cancerous and lecherous, i dream, i dream of nothing, i dream of absolute silence and heat of ovens charring me into ash. i want to be scattered. i want to be forgotten. i want to be the dust that choked everyone i have ever loved.

not dreaming, all surreal, eyes open to this state, near panic. children amok, little time, little caring, dig deep. kindness there, selflessness there, learn from her. beauty, patience, grace. have none of it, no need for it. all grip, all jagged, all bone splinter. but to yearn, to learn to yearn, to learn how, be beauty, patience and grace. impossible but for the desire.

how do you dream this? heat and sweat, sticky: you can never be clean enough. close all the windows, bring out the air conditioners: just barely enough. go to a friend’s house, wade in the pool, set aside your embarrassment, reassure your daughter, introduce your son to the water, admire your wife. ease into this, ease into your age. there is wisdom there, there is comfort, let it come. let it come.