The promise of each moment isn't lost on some of us. That's a problem; every pregnant pause is observed from micro-history as a poignant loss of life or love or momentum. Each little mis-step is taken as a missed leap from chance to dedicated forward motion. We should have been X. I could have been a contender. I should have done Y. I really should have not done Z.
None of it regret though; there's too much weight in the word "regret," too much more importance there than what is just the slight, nagging realization that something incredible could have happened but what happened instead was just the tick of a clock. The sweep of a second hand. The day sliding by in an unobserved calamity of tyrannical micro-moments, timesliced and filtered.
I don't have any regrets, but I have regret. I mean, I know regret well enough to know that it is a part of my day. Not just me; my assumption is that everyone has this, this unspoken bond with their possibly futures. Some find more meat to sink the hooks in, more sharp edges in their lost futures. I'm not sure I do, though I did at one time. Maybe that whole getting older thing, making me more streamlined, wearing down the edges, I'll be smooth as river rocks and just as weighty.
There's been a bit of internal dialog lately over the sense of who or what I am, who the people around me are, what makes them, what made me, the egocentric universe. It's odd, the very slight shift that I expected would be huge and implacably discordiant, how it turned into a subtle nudge, a very indistinct tectonic shift from Me to Everyone Else. I hear it in my speech now, how often I talk about me, me, me. And how little I talk to others about them, and how little I listen, truly listen, to the people around me. Egocentric in the big and small E sense, self-centered for reasons as predictable as any modern American Gen X social math: not enough attention here, too much there, etc. Loss without losing, first world craziness and some third world despair. That same soup the rest of us oozed out of, all of us moving in the same ways, but for some reason I surrounded myself with me. Blanketed myself with myself.
Now, less so, except in places like this where the intent is to write, specifically, about myself, specifically.
And now even this feels tainted by the mundane annoyance of my ego. I'm just not that enamored of myself, or whatever weakness of strength I've experienced. My story dims.
And now I worry that maybe whatever crazed gonzo mania fueled creativity that I once put forth as Me, is no longer. And then I worry that this worry is mis-placed, that there's nothing there to worry about; I was never that worthy. Worthy of worry.
So the tail end of this, the years of monolog and limited dialog, peters out in a series of self-obsessed incessant whining about the things that drive and define all men: work, worry, and war.
I hoped to never find my voice squelched, assuming that I would always find stories about my life or around my life that were stories: interesting, had a beginning and an end and maybe a point or at least some sort of external interest. But goddamn, this ego. This thing that makes me talk about me. It has made me like the guy who wakes up after a heavy drunk, thinking "what the fuck did I say last night? What the fuck did I do?"
I became something I wrote about. And in the process, lost myself to some larger desire to be read, to be consumed as something more interesting than me. And in the process, started to believe that. Me, me, me.
I, I, I.
So much nonsense. I'm finding that whatever it was that fueled my creativity is dwindled. And that may be a good thing. That what needs to fuel it now isn't me, me, me. But I don't know what that is yet. I haven't found it. My muse was me, and he was a goddamn jerk.
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