I just don’t know anymore.

January is pretty much over.

(I hear Mos Def utter the following words: “A lot of things have changed. A lot of things have not.”)

Where have I been? Where am I going? Am I doing well?

I’ve sworn off blogging before, only to come crawling back like a whipped cur.

I don’t know what to say, only that I’m looking for some sort of change. What sort of change? Who can say? Like they say about pornography, “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Good times for a change See the luck I’ve had would make a good man turn bad So please, please, please Let me, let me, let me get what I want this time —The Smiths “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want”

I find myself asking this question right now, and it’s tearing the already tattered remnants of my soul to microscopic shreds:

If no one loves me–and God help me, I don’t just mean a mother’s love for a child, or the generic well-wishing of friends and acquaintances—

No.

If this is all I’ve got, if it’s just going to be me against the world, if this this is all there is to my existence, if this is all I have to look forward to, year after year, world without end, this numb and muted solitude, this bleak, colorless, suffocating indifference–if that’s all there is and there ain’t no mo’, just what exactly is the point?

I can’t get out of this morbid thought. It gnaws and rasps at my heart, and, frankly, it hurts like a real son-of-a-bitch.

But maybe this kind of sorrow wouldn’t be such a weight if it didn’t make me feel like crying every so often.

They say you can get used to anything, eventually. There aren’t really too many viable alternatives, otherwise.

I’m probably just crazy.

Or maybe all I really need is a good night’s sleep.

So I need to go to sleep now if I want to have any hope of waking up in time for work tomorrow. I mean, I really shouldn’t bitch or moan, considering that I had both Monday and Tuesday off. I’m basically pretty much done with the week, really, and I get the weekend off.

The other thing is that I have vacation in a little more than a week, so it’s tough not checking out completely. If only I can stay focused.

The New Year. Huh. I have at last recognized that I am in an abject state of denial. There are a lot of things in my life that I need to closely examine, but they are unfortunately completely tied up in things that I would rather not consider. More to the point, they are inextricably linked to things that instill within in me significant amounts of anxiety, and I’m just not ready to deal with this kind of crap yet. Then again, maybe I’ll never be able to deal with this crap. So much for changing and growing.

At this moment, I just don’t want to deal with the sick, squishy part of my soul, the part that feels like rotten fruit, or maybe a sackful of shit. The remains of an aborted baby. There is a whole ten to fifteen years of my life that is completely unexamined and pretty much unshared, and I’m nowhere near ready to sift through all this crap and figure out what I should throw away and what I should keep, even though I am ever aware that all the baggage and bullshit I hold on to will serve merely to smother me in my sleep.

Call it an excruciatingly slow form of suicide. (And they say suicide is painless. Bah.)

We come to an obvious conclusion now: the reason why I don’t know where I need to go next is because I unequivocally refuse to examine just where it is I’m coming from (to spin a quote—frequently attributed to my hero—and every Filipinos’ hero—Jose Rizal—completely on its head.) So it’s all about the backward journey. The retrospective. The wallowing through shit in order to fish out the pieces of gold.

Unlike most people in my position, I recognize that I do not have the will to completely ignore my past and start my life anew. I’m way too much of a packrat for that (and one day, I promise you, my packrat ways are almost certainly going to kill me and probably in a rather pointless, pretty stupid, and somewhat gruesome manner at that. Call me an optimist.) So I’m left with—wait for it—sorting. It’s like my life thus far is the culmination of a multitude of failed attempts at sorting, each time fucking things up more and more. It seems that every time I go back and examine my life, I tend to learn the wrong lesson and end up getting more depressed about it.

I don’t know. Whatever. I give up for today. Like Scarlett O’Hara said, tomorrow is another day. (Wait, except it’s already tomorrow. Shit.)