Gas Station Variant
2026-08-12
Hey man, remember when that 80s nostalgia-wave-core or whatever was really hot back in the 2010s? Like The Midnight, Timecop1983, and all that? Come on, you gotta remember those times, right? It was peak Trump I, now that I think about it. For as weirdly unstable as those times were, I look back on those years fondly, but not because of the political climate or whatever else. No, I was a younger man, exploring the world with a more unabashed freedom and zeal for life—trying to find my place in it, that Greater Thing to aspire to. Wherever I looked, though, I couldn't find it; the only thing I managed to find were other lost souls transiently making their way through the proverbial meat grinder. Even today, that's still how it feels. I have somewhat more maturity now, but I still feel that same transient hum going about the world every time I get out of my house—which I don't like doing as much these days. It makes me sad to see the weariness in people's eyes, even those who bring that all-American display of cheerfulness. Not to say that they're being fraudulent in any way, and I do think those I see with it genuinely do carry it—but I guess I can just sense that in spite of it, they're still carrying that weight.
It's one we all have to carry, one way or another.
Some days I get tired of this meta-cognitive autofiction I've been crafting, and it makes me think it might be over soon—not because I'm bored, but because the winds that carry me might force me to move on, and that's something I'm terrified of. For much of my adult life, I've felt out of my own control. Even over the last year or two, in the act of building and carrying a stabilizing routine, I still find those lesser spirits attempting to hijack my consciousness in a way that's still ever-pervasive; even in my own personal garden, I still see them looming all around me. I wish I could be more like Christ and tell them to get behind me, but I know that I am a lesser being, albeit one in tune with those soft, almost imperceptible songs. The only way I can tell (You) about them is with this art—that I am not a prisoner, but a constant spiritual wanderer. Even when I try to phone home with those hesychastic words, I find that I don't always get a ring back. No, it's just another series of divine missed calls, day in and day out. How could I not have seen how deafening the silence can be?
Even in the midst of improving health, in a more grounded practice and declaration of faith, I still find myself wondering how I'll have the endurance to push through what's ahead. When I comfort myself with phrases like "just for today" and "one day at a time," I still find myself skipping ahead like the precocious idiot I've always been. I recently learned about an educational term, the twice exceptional individual. Yeah, I've got the spikiest of cognitive radars. High verbal communication, high sensory sensibility, low nonverbal communication, and particularly low response inhibition. To be so gifted, only to realize this whole time it was a curse. It's one I'll carry just fine, but I still find myself despondent most days. Taking my medications has been helping, but the biggest thing has just been cutting out stressors I can't handle; it's a warped sort of sacrifice I have to make, but I do it to protect other people. The truth sucks, and I'm just too damn honest.
Why does joy have to hide in those small little corners and force me to bend over backwards just to pick up little crumbs of it here and there? Perhaps that's why it's a virtue. Even if it were so abundant, there's a certain pride I feel in having to look for it. The pursuit, right? Never-ending bliss is a hell all its own, but I hope to see a healthy degree of it in that next life, that True Rest I have hoped for all this time. Until then, I'll have to contend with the gas station variant, and that's fine.
Support my work with Liberapay
Bitcoin address: bc1qtgqvj6qjxnaxkns20x5rcwnxvv3jqzhduvvxfc