Insanity is defined by some as doing the same things over and over and expecting different results.
So why is it that doing different things over and over is making me insane?
I write to get things out of me and onto the page. I thought that it would save me, by taking feelings and crises and anxiety and fear and heartbreak and suffering out of me, but it only makes me forget. I actually have written hundreds of poems and other things, and I don’t remember writing a great many of them. They’re just as new to me as they are to you. I post some of them for that reason, especially if they seem to fit my mood or circumstance right then.
I often don’t remember how I felt when I wrote them, but that’s fine. There’s no reason why I can’t interpret my poems differently now than when I wrote them, just as everyone else does. There’s no reason why what I wrote before has to mean the same thing to me now as it did then. Right?
But then again, why wouldn’t it mean the same? If a poem is a snapshot in time, how can time pass for it? How can a poem age, and morph in meaning, tone and impact, while it’s just sitting there on a hard drive or a page, happily communing with other poems?
It’s because I’m changing. I’m finding out more things about myself, and uncovering things I had buried that I didn’t know were there. This uncovering, unearthing precious yet damaged artifacts, is being caused by an earthquake in my soul. A fault line, unmistakable.
One side is my life right now, how it is, unfulfilling, numb, repetitive, often cruel and harsh. I feel drained, and I fill myself up and get drained again. I am drained so much by life right now that I must get away from people and recharge quite often. Nothing is satisfying, nothing makes me happy, and life is meaningless.
The other side is where I could be, what I strive to be, my potential, happiness, contentment, ambitions realized, goals met, love requited, perpetual mutual support.
These two plates slide and grind past each other, causing shockwaves I feel perpetually, and causing damage I feel exquisitely. If this isn’t resolved, I fear part of me will simply crack and break off, and slide into the ocean, sinking into the abyss, the inky depths consuming me.
This isn’t a very uplifting thought for a man who wants to live forever.
This pressure builds up constantly, and I can feel it. Is that anxiety? Probably. Here’s the plot twist to this story: I think there are events, feelings and trauma that have happened to me that I have written in dark corners of my mind and left there, buried, aging just like my poems, and they’ve been there so long I don’t even remember experiencing them, don’t remember writing them, don’t remember burying them, don’t remember them at all, as though they happened to someone else, as though someone else wrote them. In many cases, I’m discovering, there is tangible evidence they have occurred, yet I still feel like they couldn’t be true, they must not be true. I had to have read about them, or heard about them, right?
It’s an odd sensation, the feeling that someone else has written your autobiography. Clearly insanity has more than one definition. Wouldn’t you say?