clarity

clarity is ruinous. i pour over tarot cards & crystal balls & paper fortune tellers longing for answers, but, truth is, i prefer the unknowing, the unawareness, the haze. sometimes i intentionally make the bad choice, the wrong one, just because it’s the one that keeps me awake. sometimes i avoid asking the questions i really should because i already know the answer will bring nostradamus. i’m not ready for my world to end. you’d think i would be since i’ve been chasing suicide for two decades. curiosity is self destruction. when i was little, i had an antique russian nesting doll & i still find satisfaction in popping my lid & pulling out all those that live within. truth is divine, but i am a sinner — flawed & disastrous in nature. born of original sin, my mother & my priest & my lord washed it away, but there’s compounding interest with every insult & misdeed & laceration. i try, i do, to lead with honesty, ripe & plump like the oranges i peel for myself because there’s no one else in the office for me to peel them for. but often i find myself unintentionally selling lies by wrapping my torso & neck in secrets. i don’t want to live this way, but my anger never learned to regulate, only to bazooka out or stay curled & furled around my pancreas. until i bleed internally & soak through the gauze holding my organs in place. i know i  could ask & get the response, but then what would i use as firewood to keep warm on those frigid, frail february nights when the loneliness magnifies ten-fold & threatens to slit my throat while i lie, aching & pathetic?  it’s the not knowing that keeps me going, crafting stories of what still might be, & holding onto hope i’ve not earned. yes, it’s true, i still haven’t learned, but i’d rather be blissful & ignorant & anxious than to be empty & numb & devoid. maybe i am the drama, the chaos. maybe i just thrive on it. maybe the silence of knowledge is too cavernous for me to untense my shoulders & sprawl out. i’m more comfortable with, more accustomed to, fitting myself into cramped spaces i don’t belong & holding myself tightly. i run from unfamiliar & uncomfortable, like most of us do. i think i used to be brave. i think i used to prefer certainty, but somewhere smacked up against dorm room bureaus & leaning on sticky bar tops & getting high in studio apartments, i drifted into the allure of fragility & uncertainty. maybe i am unworthy of truthfulness & making a decision & solid footing & commitment. it’s better to remain granola bars & soiled take out containers than to ask for a homecooked meal & be denied. it’s all just rejection sensitive dysphoria & the depedstaling of my ego. or maybe it’s worshipping false prophets & credit card debt & a humiliation kink. i keep trying to affirm but maybe what i really need is complete dissection & destruction, a dash of resurrection & electroshock therapy. i am not crazy. but i am foolish & dysfunctional & haunted by my past selves & the unfortunate misplacements of energy. i can jump rope but only if i’m the one turning. i cannot relinquish control & still follow the others’ rhythm. nonetheless double dutch. so i stay contained in my lunch box, in my sheets, in my 2005 camry. i don’t drive routes i’m unfamiliar with or try something new at the indian restaurant. i buy my pens in bulk & i make some mistakes over & over & over. because i can. because this is what i have the power to do. because i don’t want to be anxious on the road or over meals but i want to fret & nauseate over love & relationships & work & anger again & again & again. because i can. because in doing so, i learn nothing about myself or the other or living in general. i find no solace, no relief, no clarity. which is the point, because clarity is ruinous.