super low today

Ah, July 4th. Amer­i­can In­de­pen­dence Day. My fa­vorite hol­i­day.

It is – more or less — the only time of year when I don’t feel like my coun­try is a com­plete pile of garbage. It was nev­er Great™ as Don­ald Trump char­ac­ter­izes, but sure­ly it was sym­bol­ic of that po­ten­tial for great­ness. This idea that there is some place where one might be giv­en a new chance at life. It was where we sent pris­on­ers in­stead of prison – now we have the most pris­on­ers of any­one.

I feel like this spir­it was alive in the peo­ple who gave us The In­ter­net and every­thing that fol­lowed, and it gave me this hope that there might be an­oth­er fron­tier like that again.

That and, get­ting to set stuff on fire
is why it’s my fa­vorite.

Was my fa­vorite.

Now, all I can seem to think about is how I spent these last two.

July 4th was also the day my ex and I got to­geth­er. So last year, like the sen­ti­men­tal ge­nius that I am, I called it our an­niver­sary.

When you think you’re go­ing to be with some­one for­ev­er, com­bin­ing your fa­vorite hol­i­day with your fa­vorite per­son seems ro­man­tic. But when things don’t turn out that way, it just ends up be­ing sort of stu­pid.

I have this re­cur­ring dream that I’m still giv­ing him the “You’re not al­lowed to treat me – or any woman – as a less­er hu­man be­ing than your­self” talk all over again. Some­how an­gry yet plead­ing at the same time. Imag­in­ing this whole life that could have hap­pened with a lit­tle more give on his end.

I’m al­ways some­how think­ing that I’m go­ing to be the one friend – of that per­son who can’t keep friends – whose love and sup­port helps them turn it all around. Yet as­ton­ish­ing­ly, it nev­er goes that way.

I wake up with this feel­ing like some­thing’s miss­ing. Some part of me… The path that nev­er un­fold­ed.

I don’t miss the con­stant ten­sion, the pan­ic at­tacks, hear­ing my­self yell as I try to val­i­date my per­son­hood some­how.

I don’t miss feel­ing my­self slip away as I tried way too hard to please some­one who could nev­er be made hap­py.

I miss smells and sounds,
col­ors, tex­tures,
train trips and cat cud­dles
and long days in bed,
the lit­tle sis­ter who was al­ways ex­cit­ed to see me,
the im­pos­si­ble weight of real pi­ano keys.

I miss San Fran­cis­co Bay and its stu­pid weath­er that hurts my face all year around.

I miss a time when I could imag­ine the fu­ture with­out my mind just go­ing blank.

But that was all part of the pre­vi­ous sea­son, as I am sure the next one will bring with it new smells and col­ors, new sounds, and cats, and in­stru­ments to bang up my fin­gers on.

Sea­sons come and go in their time, and the wait can seem a lot longer when you binge watch. But the next sea­son does al­ways come… un­til the fi­nale when every­one dies or moves to some place that our cam­era crew can’t fol­low.

I guess this is just that an­noy­ing re­cap seg­ment in be­tween.
 

 
 

—bwargh von mod­nar

Flom­mist Bwargh von Mod­nar is. Copy­right © 2017 Bwargh von Mod­nar.‬

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