Americone Dreams

I never know what to say when people ask me, "How are you," or some variant thereof, but that's hardly ever stopped me from answering. In one sense, I use the societal conventions of brevity, for which I often cross the border into dishonesty, as a guidepost. For those who are obviously asking to be polite, or because "it's what you say," or are just waiting to give you some sort of gossip or news or pretty plainly don't have the time or the inclination for an in-depth answer, I stick with a non-committal "Fine," or, "Okay," or my trademark comment about my tiredness. (These responses are also freely and guiltlessly given out to those who are lacking in some other capacity, like compassion or ability to understand the my personal existential dilemmas, or anytime I just don't feel like introspection. In short, most people, most of the time get this kind of meaningless response.)

For those I'm more inclined to be honest with, I might tell them, "Been better, been worse," or, "I'm a bit drained," or the probably-not-as-clever-as-I'd-like-to-think-it-is, "The world's still spinning; I'm still on it," and let them seek clarification if they want it. The trouble remains that even if someone were clever and caring enough to notice that even at my most expressive, I almost never do much more than list facts and let others infer my feelings, and were to ask me how I am, making sure to find ways to bridge the great gaps over trivialities and my own defensive bullshit, I'd know of no response that could adequately describe my current condition relative to any other time.

Of course, attempting to do the impossible is in my nature, so a (hopelessly inadequate) description of my innermost emotions is forthcoming. However, for those (in?)sensitive to overly melodramatic portrayals in journals, ignoring the rest of this post is probably for the best. Given that I had to put in a warning flag for whatever poor, unfortunate souls read this, how could I ever actually say to another human being that I feel like I'm in a constant state of being torn apart and rebuilding myself like Prometheus' liver, only I'm not sure I don't always feel this way and have just had it laid bare by refusing to shield myself from recent pains? I'm practically ready to dismiss myself for whining.

Objectively, I know my life isn't terrible: I'm young, funny when I feel up to it, not incredibly unhealthy, and gifted with a brilliance that would be rare enough to be notable, if I chose to develop it as my defining feature, though I never thought it fair to compare one person's suffering to others'. Maybe I'm just so weak that I can't help but to seek definition in the constant inner critical destruction and unsupervised re-edification that I force my soul through. I refuse to censor myself in regards to my feelings; what comes out into this text box is as honest as I get. At least my lousy metaphor allows for me to be borne in the clutches of an eagle as the life drips out of me; Stephen Colbert would be proud. I wish I could like his ice cream flavor more, but I continue to find caramel unpleasant. Worst thing you can do to sugar.

In any case, I'm multiple kinds of tired and should attempt to relieve at least a few of them by getting some sleep. Maybe I'll feel less on the edge of creating bad Livejournal poetry in a few hours.