Recently I’ve found it hard not to live my life in total extremes. When I talk to a stranger, smile lines lay deep in my face like trenches, carved and unmoving. Little laughs bubble up like milky hiccups, just to encourage the postman, my clients, or my fellow country club members that I really am interested in their lives. After this “mirthful” frenzy, I find myself deflated, drained, depressed; in this state of self-abandon I rarely have the energy to maintain the relationships that do matter to me.
What if we switched it? I am sick of mundane, useless acquaintances. I want to expend myself only on those who matter to me. If I am going to be stuck, swinging on this emotional pendulum, I would like to dedicate my energy at least to those who matter to me.
Francis Bacon–(the mid 20th century artist, not the perpetually constipated politician of the 1600s)–captured my rage and inner turmoil. When I have to fake the happiness, my rage boils furiously, violently eroding the veneer that I use to fake sanity. Then I find myself alone, with the work day over. And I have nothing, no rage, just emptiness. It’s some form of silence–when I just turn the dial down on life so low it’s like I’m sleeping while awake.
“We are born with a scream; we come into life with a scream, and maybe love is a mosquito net between the fear of living and the fear of death” (also Francis Bacon)
I broke up with my boyfriend. No mosquito net. And I’m vacillating between the fear of life and the fear of death — screaming as I bump into each — drifting aimlessly in between. While this may be totally TMI for you, I think you can appreciate the rage of trying to put up appearances when everything isn’t ok. I hate it. I’m tired of it. I just want to scream. So I have included Francis Bacon’s painting, to remind me I’m not the only one stuck in this absurd condition, and I’ve included my playlist. Although downtempo and sad, it’s not too sad. And no Elliot Smith–I promise :)