Mystery and Misery
Dec
'07
There are things I sometimes forget. I was viewing my own Myspace profile today because it’s been a very long time since I last did so. (It is of little importance to me to keep myself updated there. My life can be found here and at my Livejournal, so I use Myspace to keep up with friends’ lives.) It was there that I found this lyric:
mystery and misery can sometimes be a call to action and can be a source of passion
I’ve lately been overblown with disappointments. It’s nothing too entirely serious, just little things that I’ve looked forward to but which cannot happen for some reason or another, in addition to my apartment’s seeming inability to keep itself clean even though I pick up my own trash and try to keep it as tidy as possible. It’s frustrating to live with clutter. I had roommates once who so refused to take out the garbage that if I didn’t (or didn’t force my boyfriend to), it would pile up so much as to obstruct the way to the kitchen. I don’t even want to talk about the smell. When we left them, I promised him and myself that we would never live like that again - and here we are. Living not exactly like that (it never blocks paths), but close enough to make me wretched.
And instead of doing anything about it, I clean up once a month and eat chocolate the rest of the time.
We’ve gotten rid of the smell with which our filthy animal decides to reign over the living room; most of our boxes are unpacked; I have a little bit set aside in savings for more organizational units; and yet, despite all this, here I am sitting on my big green chair doing absolutely nothing productive. I’m eating a giant chocolate bar and looking at my own Myspace page.
How easily I have forgotten those things which used to inspire me.
mystery and misery can sometimes be a call to action and can be a source of passion
As the lyric says it, so I used to live my life. I used to change this misery into something useful. I was never one to laze around with sweets within arm’s reach, hoping that a better life would float its way right over to my lap. The mystery? The boy. I cannot figure him out for the life of me. Men, in general, seem to be only useful for a few things: Loving and being loved, lifting heavy objects, and unending, unconditional warmth (of the body and soul). They are not good for keeping the house tidy, keeping promises, remembering birthdays, or entirely proper manners.
Boys? They don’t mind the smell. They don’t mind wading through the mountains of clothing to climb into bed or having to pick through piles of trash to find USB cords. They don’t mind books piled in various locations around the house because it doesn’t at all effect the levels they beat in their video games. This is what I’ve learned living with a boy: I have to do everything I want done, because it can’t be expected of him to regularly take care of the dishes, move his clutter out of doorways, or snack on anything other than mass amounts of fattening foods.
Yet, it’s charming. When I get in these moods where the Internet makes me physically sick because I spend so much time on it, I think of how charming it is when he comes home with magazines I didn’t ask for: more things to disorganize the house but in which I might find a few interesting articles. But it’s not action or passion. It’s still sitting here in front of the computer while I may as well be throwing tennis balls at myself. It doesn’t make a difference.
I’d like to make a difference. I’d like to be creative again. I’d like to cook a healthy feast. I’d like to go running, if it weren’t 10 at night. I’d like to be productive. But what is keeping me here? I only cleaned the house last weekend, but already its disarray annoys me. I should clean it again! I should get off my ass and do something.
Is this a wasteful life, to sit here writing this entry about how I wish I had the motivation to get up and do something? Or is it more wasteful to find inspiration in a lyric, an old friend, but then waste that inspiration on blabbering about my frustrations?
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