Crafting the Impossible

Instability is like a fucking drug.

I wish I could continue on that vein, because it's the sort of thing that sounds real and raw and makes no sense but burns in me in a way that can only be explained as understanding.  But I don't think I'm really that passionate about it.  It's just the sort of thing that sounds nice, and sometimes, I just want to write until my blog reads like tide pools with rivulets and thundering waterfalls.  Water is a good analogy for how I want it to flow, because it can be calm and peaceful or forceful and choppy, but it still undeniably flows, it is continuous, and sinuous, and elegant and beautiful.

But anyway.  I think somewhere along the line I got addicted to rush of instability.  I first remember feeling the longing for this particular rush three years ago.  A little bit less, actually, but it's close enough.  I think that he introduced that longing for the unstable into my life.  And like I said, I don't like his habits, but they didn't make him any less interesting.  Meeting him was like a rude awakening.  He's really the factor that threw me out of my sheltered life.  I'd always been good and kind and polite and thought that everything and anything was sacred.  He lived his life like Marla Singer, to draw an odd connection there.

So when we stopped talking (I still don't know why, but it seems now that I could guess), that living-on-the-edge fell away.  And for the first time, I found myself longing for something I couldn't place.  I wanted something to happen.  I was restless.  It went away eventually, because things started happening, but until it did, it was a constant itch I didn't know how to scratch.  I tried a number of things, quietly, mostly pulling different strings in my own brain, but none of them worked. I wonder if I would have become more desperate if I hadn't been snapped out of it by events that did create change.

I've come back to that feeling since.  Some part of me has become addicted to that edge.  And I may mean that in more than one way, if only one edge is really a way of reaching the other.  I miss never knowing what was going to happen.  I miss the panic, the rush, the elation, the waiting.  And in a way, when there is nothing to create that rush for me, I do it myself.  I mentally create all of these impossible scenarios, some which could potentially happen, others which I know never will, and I relive them over and over again until they stop exciting me, until the appeal dies down.

And then I move on to something else.  I come up with another scenario.  I imagine this or that or something else.  I picture the impossible hook-up (and let me assure you, it wouldn't involve me), I craft the atmosphere and the outcome.  I build all of these scenarios in my mind and all for what?  All for this edge that I've been missing, and don't know how to find back.  The problem is though, I'm not terribly imaginative...this cheap thrill is bound to run out soon, and I wonder what I'll turn to next.