Pains In My Ass

I wish you would actually listen to yourself.

Every time I ask a question, you respond by raising your voice.

It is grating on my ears.

I hate it, and it makes me hate being near you.

I hate you on some days.  On most days now I don't really care whether you are around or not, because ignoring you is easier on my soul.

That is the truth.

You and your darned cousins have been pains in my ass from the start.  You all don't listen to one another, you just all yell without actually listening to what the other person has to say.  Then your arguments converge into a tangled mess that makes no sense whatsoever to anyone else but your muddled selves.

You all don't meed deadlines.  You just point fingers at one another, and when nagged, get tetchy.  Your egos are all as huge as mountains, but the work is not enough to fill a darned thimble.  You are like mice, scurrying around on your own individual wheels without much thought as to whether anyone else who should know understands what you are doing and whether there is quorum.

You just do whatever you want basically, without checking with one another.

You don't keep written records so everyone has a collective frame of reference.  Instead everything is based on hearsay.

No wonder none of you are huge successes.

In this new home, much is the same and yet different.

The furniture, their familiar shapes and colours, sit in different spots.  Pictures hang on walls in rooms different from the previous.  Some try to reclaim their old territories by hanging on walls that would have been their equivalent in the old house.

This house, unlike the previous, is like Grand Central station.  People seem to make themselves at home here, causing me to distance myself and not claim ownership of it fully.  I don't like sharing my home and personal space.  This house is anything but personal.  It belongs, sometimes I feel, to everyone.

But it still feels empty, devoid of a soul.  Like an airport or a train station - somewhere to rest.

I don't yet like let alone love it.  It was built out of necessity and practicality as a guide for determining the way it looks and is laid out.

I don't wander its spaces, admiring it with a warm-hearted feeling.

The garden, although large, will take years before it will feel like it is mine.

The only place, the only space that I love is the balcony outside my bedroom.  There, I sit and gaze at stars, search for the moon as I used to in the old house outside.  But without the intermittent zoom of a motorbike or other traffic noises marring the whole experience.  Here I sit, at night, alone, in the company of crickets and birds, the rustling of tree branches and the gently howling wind, and all becomes right in my world.

I wish, at times like this, I could just disappear.

I do not want to be here, I do not want to be near her or anything to do with her.

I wonder whether it is me that has the problem.  Everyone I have dated, I always have an issue sooner or later with their families.

Except maybe Anne's.  With her, it was just Shirl and the demands Shirl made on her.

It seems as if I repeatedly get stuck with people who have the same issues.  It's annoying.

I always seem to date them before they get somewhere.

Well, I am tired.  I want to be with someone who is already well on their way to being the person they are supposed to be.  

I don't know if such a person exists.

Maybe I am better off alone.

Catch up

You want to know why you fail.  It is because you and those cousins of yours talk more than work.

Because you choose to focus on the miniscule, and do not know how to delegate.

Because you do not focus on what is vital or important.

And you can't communicate.

In fact, I don't know anyone in your family who can.

You are all pig-headed, loud, psychotic, meddlesome people who know more about minding everyone's business but your own.  People who know better how to do other people's work than to do yours.

It is annoying.

And you treat the house as if it is something that magically takes care of itself.

Well it does.  The it is me.  I do the laundry.  I clear up the mess and pick up things.  I pick up clothes and put them in the laundry hamper.  I make sure things are fixed, unclogged, re-wired and unplugged.

You, on the other hand, just sleep and eat and shit.

Because, you say, you are too darned busy to do any of that stuff.  Because everyone runs to you.

Well everyone but ME.

I do things on my own.  I don't depend on you.  I never have.

I never wanted to, I guess, because I knew early on that you are undependable.

Because you can't even get a handle on your own life, let alone something bigger.

You just need to grow up and learn how to walk away from things that are failing and beyond repair.

Walk away from things that are stupid and hopeless.

Stop banging your head on the wall.

And for God's sake, get fucking organised, so that you have a routine, and deadlines that you meet.  Not just talk, talk, talk about things and never get them done.

This is why you are always running on the same spot and your life is in a rut.

In fact, if I had not hauled you out of it, you would still be there.

I need to stop doing this.

I need to just focus on my own thing.

And if you happen to catch up, then well and good.

If not, I guess I will move on.