experiment

“The world is gone, I must carry you”
-Paul Celan

“What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all.”
-Pablo Neruda

This is all just chemicals in the brain. This is just not getting my fix. So...

I wait here. Willy-nilly—won’t I, will I? This is the waiting my feelings are going through—the waiting (the wanting)—waiting to get over it even though I don’t want to “get over it.” And all while I wait, serve, order taker, no—server, servant, slave...

The lattice...I want to be the lattice...I want to be the connection, the nexus. I am the nexus of...

I need to get out of my head. Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out. Relax. Relax. This is all just chemical reactions in the brain. Science has shown that when you fall in love the reward centers of the brain are flooded. Falling in love is similar to going mildly insane or OCD. This in turn, this flooding of chemicals in the brain, gives you a high similar to highly addictive drugs. Our brains create this connection between the high feeling and the other that we love, so that we crave another hit again and again and again.

Don Juan was just a junky.

Just like someone addicted to drugs, when the reward center of the brain doesn’t get its hit (the other), the brain goes into withdrawal. Like a junky when he doesn’t get the high, and he tries more of the drug—we love back even harder—and it becomes like the stages of death. First, there is denial as we attempt to win back our loved other. Then panic sets in and love turns into anger and hate because all of this stuff is connected in the brain.

I want to be the lattice.

Until finally we need rehab, which in the case of the lover scorned, rehab is the strip club and alcohol.

Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in...Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Relax, Relax.

Maybe love isn’t anything real. It is just those chemical reactions in the brain. Maybe we just think that love is something more than what it is because of social constructs. Like being scared of the dark—chemical reactions. How can some be scared and others not? How can I feel like this, and she does not?

The world is gone, I must carry you. That means that the world of the other is gone, so I must carry the world of the other. I am Atlas shrugging, struggling, crushed.

I can’t think—I think I think too much. The Thinker carrying the world of Atlas’s world. Hamlet disease. I have to work. Hopefully it will be slow. No, fuck that. Hopefully it will be busy. The busier the better, and that way I don’t have to think, I can just be.

I stand and listen to pop music. It won’t let me forget—it won’t let me not think.
He cooked for her...that is a personal date. Like the picture I saw “He is not your prince charming.”

Wait for this feeling to pass. Waiting is willy-nilly. If time is a door we pass through, waiting is what happens when the door gets jammed. Heidegger’s “present at hand” or is it “ready at hand”, I always confused those two. When you are in the moment, you are just in the moment and take the object for granted. But when it breaks (hammerness) you now analyze the object, it becomes strange to you and its function is suddenly made apparent. Do people “break” too? Can a life break and become an object like the objects that become weird when we wait?

Willy-nilly—the wait. I and my emotions pass from consciousness to unconsciousness as I remember to forget, then remember to forget and forget not to remember. The door is stuck and that feeling in the pit of my stomach is there. That feeling you get when you fall in love—the butterflies... those butterflies come back when love is dead and leaving or gone too. Love is that pit in your stomach feeling (is this hunger? Hamson?) and so is heartbreak. But love is felt in that rollercoaster-I’m-having-so-much-fun-in-the-world feeling as opposed to that heartache pit in stomach feeling like turbulence-on-a-plane-towards-death feeling.

Context (the horizon) is chemicals in the brain is context is everything. When you are on the ride that feeling in your stomach is interpreted as something fun and exciting. When you are on the plane that feeling gets interpreted as scary and anxious.

It is all just chemicals in the brain. Synapses firing. Fucking highs. Fucking fuck. Fucking fuck my life. And Jesse is pissed at the world but he is only twenty-two, and I hate to tell him that things don’t get much better, and that the only hope you got is that of Sisyphus—you have to come to the realization that it is the way you interpret your burden that matters.

I get no tip on a seventy-three dollars and fifty-two cent check. And for a moment—I am finally not thinking about her, and then I realize that I am not thinking about her and then I think about her and then I think if I get shitty tips all night, I could just be pissed and think less about her... maybe. Willy nilly. I must carry the world.

And my head feels like it is going to explode! The throbbing as if thought was ready to ooze out of it. The hamster getting tired. And the music plays on as a table of six sits down and I have to, finally, not think and just work...

And the song playing is about love and lovers and giving to receive and I think about how I give my services but don’t receive tips and that maybe my life sucks because I spill too much salt while I work.

I want to tell everyone, ask everyone, “why doesn’t she pick me?” And I know it is the distance. The three and a half hour drive every other weekend. The time apart would be hard. The drive would be hard. The whole thing would be financially irresponsible. Besides, it is all ego. It is petty and stupid and it is only chemical reactions in the brain.

I want to be an interpassive subject. I want someone else to wait for my emotions to get over it. I want someone else to hurt for me and go through the withdrawals. I want eternal sunshine for the spotless mind.

I want my words to work. I want them to have a direct meaning so she can see there is nothing to interpret, that my words are not performing. This is, after all, just a story. Just powerless words about words exchanged.
Distance and lateness. Until “You’re cut” and then it is...

Zen and the art of rolling silverware...

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