Dashboard Confessional

Seems to me like weekends are when things start to get wonky. You can be lost in a throng of people, all of them saying hello, how are you Oh God has it really been that long and what are you wearing to the wedding, did you know the tailor completely fucked the dress up and at the same time feel totally lost, like you're an island in the middle of an always chattering sea. Okay, so the sea doesn't chatter, but if you're nitpicking this is not the best blog to be reading now.

(A many thanks to THIS blogger who decided to inspire this post, albeit unconsciously)

Anyway. After awhile of that floating feeling (as opposed to that sinking feeling, which many people can tell you is much worse) everything begins to blur into a muffled drone and though you may be in the thick of things, you're disconnected, as far apart as if you were 10 000 miles away. The body's left, nodding and smiling like some 14th century automaton when quite honestly there's just noone home. Sometimes, you wonder if everyone's lives are interconnected by some cosmic filament, if there's someone on the other side equally as bewildered as you are. You like to think that that person is also trying to unravel those tangled skeins, hoping to make some sense of everything and at the same time, wondering if there's someone like you on the other end.

And so, fueled by this shadow of a hope some of us carry on doing the things we do, saying the things we say, dancing the same dance, left, right, skip and turn and a-one two, left. Biding time, some of us call it. The thought that there may not be anyone at the other end of the filament sometimes crosses our mind, but it is quickly quashed, for if there is no one out there, no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow then what the hell is the fucking point?

Perhaps the point is, as black as it may make our Mondays tomorrow, is that there isn't one, that we have to make our own lives matter. Not to be defined by the ones we're with (or wish to be with, didn't think I'd let you lot off, eh, ha-ha) our friends, our jobs, our own individual bogs (sorry Jikon, couldn't resist) or our very user-specific monkeys on the back. Though we live on a planet of 6 billion souls, what guarantee is there that the person on the other side (if this filament even exists) finds you in time before you wheeze the final breath, or if he/she/they/it isn't an amorphous giant plasma being from the Horsehead Nebula (I don't know about you, but I suspect sex would definitely be a problem, let alone dating a being comprised mainly of gas)?

Pessimistic? Perhaps, but I not overtly so, I think. The hardest thing about living, when you've realised that you've found all you need up to a point is perhaps finding yourself. So until that day decides to dawn (or it's dragged into the picture) I know of at least some people like me who'll continue putting down bits and pieces of their lives into caches all over the net, sometimes ambiguous, other times, horrifyingly honest (like oh my God the sex was amazing, and she was a screamer, bearing in mind that sentence is fictional) until we finally find this thing we're looking for, and more importantly recognise it before it goes.

Because let me tell you one thing, starting over's a bitch, and she slaps you hard.