I am, these days, trying to find some peace, trying to understand what is happening to me psychologically, and trying to come to terms with an existence that has little reward for me. I sat in my little office this afternoon and evening, and worked on sharpening and maintenance of a couple knives.
The sound, the feeling through my hands, the change in the blades' edges, the smell of the oils: all this, and more, bring my mind, my heart, a certain peace, a calm, an acceptance. There is an element of nostalgia, of looking backwards over my life to days long since elapsed, days when my life was so much better.
Days when I was not afraid as I am now. Days when I simply did not wonder if today was the day when something catastrophic was going to happen which either killed me or caused me so much harm that it would become even more difficult to live.
The days I live now are lived largely in isolation and fear. I am isolated from other adults with whom I could talk. I fear that I am reaching the end, that the grave is looming ever so close, ready for me to climb in, and to stop breathing.
It is well-nigh impossible for me to convey how difficult my life has become, so I'm not going to waste anybody's time in reporting on it. Suffice it to say that I am not sure I have the strength to continue.
When I find myself drifting through multiple realities, and fighting with the overwhelming difficulty of talking to anybody, I jump to thinking of the desire to die, the desire to end the fear, the heartache, the hatred. I jump to thinking of how much people must truly despise me to be able to treat me as they do; I jump to thinking of how I have nobody in my life to support me.
I jump to thinking of how easily people lie to me. Of how people tell me things like "they are true men, who know how to live, while you clearly don't know how to live at all" while they are lying to me about donating $75 for cancer research. I find that, no matter how quiet I may be, I just can't bring myself to lie about helping with cancer research with something as simple, as easy, as donating $75.
Yet these "true men", these men from the Land Down Under, are able to lie to me about such things, and they even claim that such lies make them true men.
I find that I simply do not understand any of this. I find that I don't understand how other "true men" can tell me how I should live my life, that they can tell me I don't know how to live. I don't understand how they believe that they can tell me how to conduct my life, and that I should be more concerned about the impact my life has upon them.
There is so much that I don't understand. There is so much that the simple act of sharpening a knife, of hearing the blade moving back and forth, gives me some peace from these people.
