Simultaneity
Carl, Vonnegut, and the Tralfamadorian zoo
Carl was hurt once. Now he is afraid. I don’t judge it. Carl was hurt once. I understand that. The problem is I have to go after Carl. He plays a game. He meows real loud from the corner of the hallway to get my attention. That is as far as he will go. When I stand to get him he runs under the bed then positions himself close enough to the edge that I can grab him by the scruff and slide him out. It’s his game. He meows. I find him under the bed. Show him love.
Carl has limitations, patterns. I accept them. I love him. He was hurt once. Carl is afraid. I will rescue him today. I will rescue him tomorrow. It’s okay. Carl was hurt.
I have problematic self-awareness. An astral diagnosis that questions genuine feelings and calls authentic moments dishonest. The kind of awareness that tells me I am selfish. Lacking a single earnest bone in my body. The kind of hypersensitivity that stops me from mourning or feeling loss. Self-awareness that grows lemon trees in my chest.
A voice comes to me. It’s not mine. It’s not not mine. It is half mine. When I am in the throes of heavy emotion it tells me I’m phony, fake, emoting for attention. It tells me I am a performer in a show. Tells me I should find a way to become grain inside a bottle.
