Who Are You? It May Not Be Pretty.

I’m not sure what to make of the events of the last few weeks. Questioning who exactly I am, and frankly trying to understand what that even means, is unsettling. We all do it, don’t we? Unless you’re a complete boob. It sucks, does it not? As one who is governed by emotion and unfamiliar with acting rationally, such a question is a bit dangerous over which to brood. Imagine life as a map, where all the Big Questions lie. We move around on the land it represents, blindly, but we know where we are when we get there. You’ll find me roaming around, “Who am I?” Treacherous territory. Next to, “What’s it all about,” and, “Here be dragons.”

I’m serious. The question, “Who am I?” is a dangerous one to contemplate. Potentially fatal. Possibly life-affirming, too. Unlikely for me, as I tend to romanticize the idea of suicide.

You wander through life as you age, and change. Deny it, and the only price you’ll pay is confusion. And you’ll be wrong, too. Everyone I’ve ever known would agree, so there’s that. I have trouble with it, which is probably why I’m so damned befuddled and scared right now. You can ask a question of a 30 year old and get a very different answer than the one you’ll get from a 60 year old. It’s ’cause you’re moving. If you don’t like that, no amount of drinking, drugging, fucking, self abuse, and so on, is going to change anything. Try it…I have. Yet here I am. Took a wrong turn somewhere. One night stands suck. Drugs are great, but they’ll kill you eventually. Self abuse is uncomfortably effective but socially unacceptable. My attempt to get out of here, to confidently state an answer to the aforementioned question (that is achingly boring to everyone else but me) and move on, seems impossible right now. I’m terrified. Nothing but awe at how fearful a person can get. I like this picture, here colorized, a Goya sketch…it’s called, “The sleep of reason produces monsters.”


The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters by Goya. You got that?

To those I love, I’m pretty sure I’m just a rumor of someone who used to be here. You can’t love a rumor, or hate one, for that matter. Fuck. I’m pretty sure I’m mixing metaphors right now, too, but I’m not sure, as I can’t think straight. Partially because I’m not that bright, but also because I’m distracted by a cat who insists on curling up in my lap.


My darling cute pain in the ass cat, Panther.

Am I cruel? Am I given to deception? Do friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and comrades loathe me against my knowledge? I’ve physical and mental ailments that are treated expensively, are they wasted on a horror of a man? To put it fancifully, is my life a riddle that I’ve answered incorrectly in my favor, with the true and correct answer so abhorrent to me that I’ve refused (unawares until recently) to answer accurately? That’s a nasty one. It goes on like that. And no previously well-lighted corner doesn’t grow dark.

I’ve averted having to look at all this by keeping busy, at least this morning. I’m not doing well today. So, I’ve taken some walks while smoking my pipe, sweeping away ice-melting salt from the front and back stoops (nasty stuff that gets tracked into the flat), doing several loads of laundry, paying bills (writing the checks, anyway), clearing dead leaves away from last seasons chives that are coming in green (see picture) and writing this damn post. La-de-da, la-de-da, yada, yada, yada. So it goes.


The chives will not be beaten, not even by the infernal Winter of 2015. Tending to them is a quality distraction.

As you may have noticed, I try to write clever things that seem meaningless. But there is a there here. Friends, acquaintances, comrades, and neighbors I do have, and some may try to tell me that I’m a good guy, or something like that. Man, that really puts hair on this problem. There’s a chain hanging from it already.

Have a good Palm Sunday if you happen to be Christian. To my Jewish friends, happy Sunday. Happy atheist day, friends.


About Darren W. Lyle

I'm certifiably insane (I have the paperwork), collect old typewriters (got one?) and am 45 years old. I've 3 pets, of course, and have thoughts. Some aren't good, some are. some are funny, some are just there, but I'll post them when I'm of a mind to.
This entry was posted in Autobiography, cats, depression, electro-convulsive therapy, life, Mental Illness, movies, naked, seizure and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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