“Oh” I said, perhaps taking him a little too seriously, and answering him a whisper. At least 20 percent of anything I said is bullshit unless I'm whispering. “Do you feel they are more muted than other people, or do you just keep them all in the closet”?
I don't remember him answering the question directly.
“I think they wouldn't be on hangers” he added. “They'd be all wrinkled at the bottom”.
“Aw.” I said at last a bit hopefully “You're being metaphorical”.
“No”.
He was in fact, just being funny.
“Why not let it be a metaphor? Is that somehow unmanly?”
“Er... probably high school english teachers” he replied caught in a corner, until he was freed by the fact that he was no longer speaking. He never explained what he meant by that, at least in so firm a fashion as I understood it. But it was a sleepy conversation after all.
But after work and a walk home, I got to thinking. Or more likely, I got to thinking about things and feelings things underneath them, and not letting them match up. I felt lonely, perhaps... or fearful, or anxiously happy, after distractions and responsibilities of the day had ceased. I doubt it would feel too differently had he been here, it would just delay it a while.... I'm feeling something, and as usual, I don't know what.
I like his accidental symbolism... or any symbolism I suppose. If he doesn't like it for himself it is fine, but I wonder how he could ever understand me if he haes it so much. I live in metaphor. All I feel is metaphor. If you asked me what it is... I could guess, but somehow, I'd rather talk about that closet full of wrinkly clothes. Somehow that much seperation makes it safe... a shirt that needs to be washed is one thing, a festering anguish is quite another. I cannot take myself serious long enough to ponder a change of schema, but I could tell myself I need to do a lot of spring cleaning...
It's all kinda tangled up with me, more than a closet full of wrinkly mystery garments. I could imagine someone like that. Maybe a frown or a smile or a word won't entirely match their surroundings, maybe they'd try to push something to the back that they'd like to think they never owned in the first place, and pull out something they forgot they bought when the sun was shining last year. Things like that... the metaphor could fit. As people go, a person with a messy closet of emotions would be in control, and aware, and all that good stuff.
But for me... I can't pull out one reason for feeling or the feeling itself without everything else tumbling out in the same amorphous heap. Perhaps I dress or express myself ok... not brilliant, not fitting, but ok. I dress and express the way everyone can tolerate, but underneath it all, I need another metaphor entirely...
But the amorphous tangle is me. I'm sure of it... sure as I am of anything. I'm used to it, and some other people are too... but I wish it was more than that.
It's never the people that know you who love you, those just end up as family, whether nongenetic or otherwise... or just fantastic or predictable mistakes at romance.
Right?
(cartoon from xkcd.com)
