"It's just one good idea after another with you!" exclaimed one f my managers after I overheard a colleague's phone conversation, and made a suggestion based upon it.
"I wish!" was my laughing response. "It's more like the odd half-decent idea, followed by a monumental fuck-up!"
Sure enough, within the space of about three hours, I made the error which I had earlier prophesised.
(The technical details of my suggestion, and my fuck-up, are neither here nor there. They serve only to illustrate a point, one which persists even as I approach my 31st birthday.)
A glimpse of something worthwhile, followed by crushing mediocrity, endlessly repeating itself throughout the years. This is not the sorrowful rambling of a former or relapsed depressive. It is demonstrated in every action I carry out. I photosynthesise, absorbing the longed-for light of my Bluefish, and I emit sour, rancid air.
Each time, a paralysis of either mind or body prevents me from intervening to prevent the unfolding of dramas both major and minor. I know the point at which I must act in order to divert an event from reaching an undesirable conclusion, and yet I continue to watch. Then I feel the moment pass, and there is only the inevitable contrition and kicking of oneself to contend with.
On the way to work earlier - before my fuck-up - I cried, the tears aggregating with the rain. I cried because Bluefish requires a response which I am unable to give; both the knowledge of what I must do, and the execution of the action are beyond me.
I am a spectator in my own life, with a trail of destruction swishing behind me like a prehensile tail. It obliterates everything in its path, even the mental and physical connection between two people which, until recently, seemed immutable.
