September 27, 2010

POSTING RESUMES IN OCTOBER

I will be offline for this entire week to deal with various personal issues, none of which I am going to discuss publicly. Except for this, I am very tired. There is a distinct line of progression here, and it moves from tiredness to weariness to battle fatigue.

I somehow found the strength this weekend to do these three stories, and at least one – the one about Breitbart and Maher – got picked up by Crooks and Liars as a reference, so in a way they did some good, I suppose.

But as I stated in my post yesterday, I am no longer sleeping for the most part, and it has been a couple of truly crappy years in my life. I don't remember a day anymore when I haven't been fighting off migraine attacks, and sleep – if it comes – is no longer filled with promise and hope, only nightmares.

I am not complaining.

There are people who have it worse than me.

They are the target of political ridicule and hatred.

But it doesn't change the fact that I am fatigued, and my strength meter is running on empty, so whatever strength is left has to be – as it always the case in war – rationed and only used with effective efficiency.

I wish for dreamless sleep. I wish for blindness, if only temporary, so I no longer have to see what I see. I wish for my mind to shut down, if only for a little while, because thoughts have become scalpels and analysis a jagged, rusty blade that cuts deep into the little bits of my soul that are still shining brightly.

They are so few now, those bright bits, they are what is left of my faith and my hopes, and I try to hold onto them as best as I can.  But they slip away, with each new thing I see and each new piece of the puzzle as it becomes apparent to me.

Almost all of my analysis leads to a forecast of the future that... I can see but don't know how to prevent. In the past, every time I made a forecast, it came true. And again, yes, I am aware of how arrogant that sounds. But it's the truth, I am afraid to say. I wish it weren't. And while the future is yet to be written, the probability lines I can see emerging... frighten me.

Some realities not yet born are already misshapen, ugly and yet... yet they are the ones that appear the strongest, clawing their way out from possibility to probability and only years away from reality. I can see them, and they don't come with uniforms or jackboots, their horrors are of a more subtle kind, dressed in Armani and talking business.

I can see them being born, out there in the silence of a world yet to come, a stage yet to be prepared, with actors and directors preparing for their great entrance.

I want to let go. To those who do not understand, trust me, be happy you don't. There's a price to be paid for having my talents, and if I could give them back, these talents of mine, for one night of dreamless sleep, I would.

But I can't give them back, these talents. And you cannot unlearn what you have learned. And so I know that I will continue. That I have no choice. That every now and then I will try to do something about the things that may otherwise be left unseen.

But I am weary. And I am fatigued. And I need to get away from the frontlines for a while. For a week. Or two. And try to remember what it felt like. To have a life. And feel human. I don't remember it anymore. How that feels.

I am not complaining.

There are people who have it worse than me.