So I recently finished the entirety of Neil Gaiman's "The Sandman" comic books in their collected forms, and have lately had a weird sense of ennui. Why am I here? Where is this going? What's next for me? Has my life really been reduced to a series of waiting games between paychecks and trying to figure out if I can afford to go out for cheap sushi or a drink?
The answer to all of these questions is the same one: Yes and No.
Yes I am here (and no I'm not). Yes, this is going somewhere (but right now it's not). Yes, something is going to happen next (and no, I won't be able to see what it is). Yes, I play the waiting game and must strain my resources between paychecks and no, I don't exactly hate it. Yes I love cheap sushi and cheap booze. No, I shouldn't spend the money on those things.
Gaiman did a great job of telling stories that were about stories. There were all sorts of stories happening within each other, twisting and turning and tying together in ways that were both telegraphed and unexpected. It's difficult to really understand the enormity of what he wrote. I've read several of those volumes more than once and I still can't quite grasp it all; meaning is right there out of the corner of my eye, and when I turn to look it's completely gone.
So now I wonder where my story goes, or if there is a story to tell at all. I can romanticize it or tell it like it is. Or maybe there's a romantic beauty in just telling it like it is. "What is, is." I'm not sure if there's going to be anything to tell as life continues on for me, but when it does, I'm going to tell it here.
And that's the answer for now.
Spaces and places and faces and traces,
They turn and they turn,
And they all go to pieces.
And I can't describe
What's in front of my eyes.
It's just you.