(Cari) yourself.

It seems as though my head has been as foggy as San Francisco itself lately.
Today things feel different.
Thanks, You.

These Hybrid Moments-An introduction by Cari Royer.

To some people, the view of a city come nightfall is a vision of beauty, comfort and affinity. I, on the other hand, am less indoctrinated by the ideology of the society we have created. When I look out at the hundreds of resplendent lights, all I see is dissolution.

It wasn’t always this way. At certain moments I allow myself to recall a time of happiness, a time of innocence. I wouldn’t believe my own memory if I didn’t have photographs to prove that in fact, I was once capable of feeling. I sometimes wonder if the divergence of the soul from my body happened all at once or little by little. There’s really no way to know for sure. What I do know is that somewhere along the line I’ve become trapped in my own personal purgatory: not quite capable of living, not quite ready to die. For now, the memory of a time less destitute keeps me company through night.

I look around me. I seem to be in my car, the engine isn’t running so I take this as a good sign. There is a salty taste in my mouth; I realize this before I realize that I’m still crying. How did I get here? Shock sets in as I become frantic for clues. I start probing my body for signs of injury, but find nothing. I can deduce at this point that I was not in a car accident. Another good sign. I’ve never felt this way before. The darkness that is the last two hours of my life is unforgiving. I come to the realization, as a child does when he realizes he’s been separated from his mother in a grocery store, that I am completely alone in my experience. I reach for the buckle of my seatbelt and notice that my hands are violently shaking. It’s as if I’ve just awoken from a nightmare that I’ve immediately forgotten. I can feel the ghost of negativity, but I can’t yet comprehend the weight of my situation. I open my car door and as my foot hits the pavement, I’m overcome by a sinking familiarity. Like a sledgehammer to the face, the events of the night force their way into my unsuspecting psyche. Bile burns its way through my esophagus, and as hard as I try to stop it from happening, I begin to vomit uncontrollably. Tears flow from their respective ducts, and the liquid burns my eyes. I collapse, and once again, everything fades to black.

This is the night that came to be the final shove into oblivion. For three years previous to this bridge to my apathy, I had been the closest thing to happy that I believe I’ve ever been. I had the world in the palm of my hand, and to any ignorant outsider, I had the brightest future one could have.

As most good stories are, this is a tale of love, loss and my journey to cynicism, emotional indifference, and pseudo-romantic interaction.

How is it…

…that something that should not have the power to affect my day, does?