Pain Without a Name

You know that everything is fine, but you have your doubts. You can name various mundane reasons for your current depressive self-climate -- lack of sleep, overwhelming workload, constantly shifting workload, physical concerns arising with getting older, Saturn's Return, the oppressive 90-degree heat, the unceasing poverty, the lack of nookie -- but you have your doubts, you expect more. Oh, how gradiose the self can be, looking for an Uber-Romantic Ontological reason for his/her sufferings when the actual source may be something more worldly, usual, and commonplace. YOU are not special.

But still, that scowl you wear on your face every day of the week, your inability to control your passions, the discipline you've discovered in spending less and less, the anti-social avoidance of former friends, the whittling away of obligations, concerns, projects-- all of this bespeak, perhaps, something bigger, larger, more grand and more expansive billowing and bubling on the horizon of the Self, something Unspeakable, Unrepeatable, Unknowable--something unlike anything that has ever been before.

The future is gestating in your own heart, and it hurts like hell.

Then again, you could just be courting a horrible degree of holisitic imbalance, like a backed-up emotional plumbing system, in all of your self-denial, avoidance, hatred, failure to reflect, giving up on meditation, and 0% interest in going for fucking therapy or buying one of the elicit products of the Pharmafia. Zoloft can't write, coffee and loathing can. But the flameout, the throwing of fists and the breaking of glass, the glaringly unfair judgement-making, the *duh!* of self-serving behavior, the frightening congruity with the hippies and bourgeousie you claim to hate--certainly it makes for good theatre. Drama in the repetition of the Bohemian Rap-soddy, writ large in a safe city tucked at the foot of the big dangerous rock hard dagger-faced Moutains Grandioso.

Colorado makes everything seem more important.