When days are numbered…

I don’t know what exactly prompted this writing, but whatever it is, I know in my heart that it is towards a good end. I just felt euphoric and wistful at the same time. Maybe I’m bipolar (but then I can’t be feeling opposites at the same time, I suppose). The bottom-line is that I feel my days are somewhat numbered. Well, I’m not planning to give up at all. It’s just an instinct. One of those morbid moments in my exceedingly exhausting life. I have a surge of emotions running through me, and I feel compelled to share. Not much has happened in the last few days that was out of the ordinary. I just feel I take in way more than I was ever meant to. I remember looks, smiles, words, laughs, nightmares, visions, flashes more than I ever have before. Something must be happening to me, and this (writing) strikes me as a way to make sense of this erratic universe of mine – the universe in which you hold a very dear place.  

I’m extremely weepy these days. I cry (at least internally) when I see a beautiful blossom. I cry when I see pain, I cry when anyone is helpless… I cry when I write… like now. I feel there’s so much I can do for this world. Yours and mine. And that I have no way of articulating anything. I feel crippled and voiceless. I feel inadequate. I feel I was not accomplishing what I was sent here for… this earth… this universe. I’m the smiling guy. I’m also the weeping guy. I can feel… a lot more than one can ever imagine.

I’m lucky, though. I feel blessed. I feel fortunate that I have so much less pain than most of the world. I feel unjustly situated. I feel undeserving. That’s what prompts this note. I sometimes wish I could watch my life like a movie. I might get a better perspective then. I’m hopeful, but every single day is slightly worse than the one before. So I pray, and I know lots of people are praying for me. I wish I could do much more. I feel I can only do one hundredth of what I could do. Isn’ t that always the case though?

I went to Stevenson in the morning, even though dragging myself to the bathroom was like a wild parade. I couldn’t see that well, so I didn’t mingle much. I just stayed where I was, crippled by immobility,blurred vision, and inarticulate speech. I had to be there to help my online students if they needed help. Only one student came today, and her eyes when I told her that she only had minimal revisions to get an “A” in the class validated my existence. Ah, the joy of little things. I realized when I was at Stevenson, how imperfect I was. I realized that I was gradually slipping from my overly gregarious self. I felt selfish. I felt like a burden on the world. I felt this. I did. I did.

When I came back to my apartment, earlier than I should have, because I felt nauseous and sick and heavy-hearted, there was a package waiting for me. It was from Em – Emily. Ah, I cried when I opened it, Em. It was a gorgeous portrait that she had painted. Emily is a phenomenal artist. On the back of this beautiful painting, she had written, “I pray for you, everyday.” I have this gorgeous painting on my mantelpiece that doesn’t work. It reminded me of the beauty of this world. The talent of this world. The goodness of this world.

I’m a melancholic. When I was about sixteen, I wrote a poem called “As the leaves fall.” I remember it word for word:

In an autumn eve

The leaves fall

To the golden earth

One by one.

From an open frame

I watch entranced

When memories roll

As the leaves fall.

A solitary bird

On a leafless branch

Sings a strain

That makes me sad.

She complains

Of the earless wind

That robs her friends

As the leaves fall.

I realize

The hopeless hope

That makes us sad

Day by day

When all we know

Is an aimless end

As the leaves that fall

As the leaves that fall…

I feel like this now. Maybe it’s the blues of a semester ending. A year ending, really. I want to gather the rosebuds while I may… there’s no time to lose. I wish sometimes, though, that I could love the whole world. I’m so imperfect, though. I’m so so imperfect. I want to be good. I want to see someone smile. Maybe it’s goodness induced by impending closure… Maybe. I believe, for it makes sense to me. And you can believe what makes sense to you, and I will love you with my whole heart, not just a part. When I go to bed, I think of my blessings. I think of ways I could be a better human being. Ways I could make this a better world. And I cry a little.