I should be at a party right now.
A good party, with people I know, trust, and value as friends. Hell, I even love some of them, I am not afraid to say it.
Instead, I am sitting at home, typing this, listening to the thunder, and watching the flashing of lightning out of the corner of my eyes. Richelle is in bed with a stomachache. I feel like she wanted me to go.
I have to go out to PA tomorrow for a funeral. It is the dad of a friend – a man I could call no better than an aquaintence. I met him a dozen and a half times over the past few years. His life and times impacted me in several significant ways. I am saddened by his loss, much more so than I thought I would, honestly.
He may not have been the most enlightened man, or the best man, but he was a decent man, and I will always remember him as such. His wit and laughter were forever sealed in my mind at his daughter’s wedding, when I had a good bout of joking and echoing laughter in the bathroom of what was probably the most elegant place I have ever been at a social event.
I found out about this yesterday. Since then, I have been obsessing over life, and mortality. The recent interest Richelle has sparked in the series “Dead Like Me” has helped, and hurt, in almost equal amounts.
I feel like I am a broken man, and have felt that way, in lesser or greater extents, for months. I feel disconnected from the most important element of my life, no matter what I try to do to make that connection as tangible as I know it can be, as it should be. I wonder if my trying mightn’t be the problem. I wonder if I mightn’t be the fucking problem. I feel like I am wasting time, yet, I cannot cite what I might be doing better, would that I were not doing what I am.
I’ve known too many people who died, I think. Longstanding affair, death and I have – in my family it is a matter of pilgrimage. In my life, it has become a happenstance of recurring misfortune. Minimum two per year over the last 15 years. Average of 3.13 per year, with the worst year being 6. Eleven suicides, which is 23.41% of the total. 47 threads yanked from the pattern around me.
So many wants and desires for the future, but tomorrow always seems to get here too early, right after today slipped away like a trout caught barehanded.
Fuck me for the melodrama, and for wasting your time if youa re reading still – I am seeing catharsis here, not value for the reader.
What fucking gives?
Roll thunder roll. I think I need a drink.
The rain has finally come, maybe now the thunder can let up a little.