The Things I've Carried

The Things I've Carried.

I've been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one day, on a beautiful Sunday morning, I took a walk in the park, alone, and as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one a huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life, in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me. Ever since I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans were not to be trusted and almost all were selfish to the core. Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of mine.

I also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals, pure and simple. My hatred for them is immense, my contempt boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts". Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why there have  been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be exacted.

Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a happy person. The answer is I have my moments. And I am not as lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and don't have much need for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint  and nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed, making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and  
funny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me, the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean, their concerns are interests are prosaic and vastly different from mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not interesting at all apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans dispense "opinions" without substantiation, dismiss other's opions and ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others are  different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss my royal hairy ass.

Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman. I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I have no intention of doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to buy silence fromn his soon-to-be-ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for target practice.

To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind, superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Others dream of power and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires to become who I can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on, use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never "enjoy" reading these words.

Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong, shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the ifrst place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory: suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to suicidal thoughts in the first plac. Unfortunately, suicidal people are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they know that self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). so they struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".

Author's Note:

Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have no imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.

My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s. From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A  
person can love you today, but may find you boring and undeserving of her love tomorrow. Thus, she will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that it is stupid to love a woman who doenot or no longer love you. If you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive. Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look for love and respect, not pity and charity.

Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with three women. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is frenzied. I don't have time to be love sick. I have not been lovesick since Laura walked away. I don't even know what love really is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting the perennially sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together, but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once loved Laura. I dindn't love her anymore because she turned out not who I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or just her, but she means absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made a bad mistake. I misplaced my affection. And I paid for my mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut. I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant they loved themselves more and they would hang around only if I would not be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care about themselves only. Nothing new here, but when that happens, I still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly naive.

So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore. I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words of mine, however fraught with a unheathy mix of self-consciousness (uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute) and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my boat out of the troubled waters I chose for myself? Ironical? I know it, pal. I am my own worst enemy.

A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody is to shed light more on the comment/critic/inquirer  than on the subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago. What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters. Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)

(cont.)