The Story of human tragedy

On my drive to work I was reflecting on my past, even my recent past and realized it's a tragedy. But also I suspect most peoples lives have been the same. Not tragic in the sense of catastrophe after catastrophe like losing people you love deeply or disabling illnesses or accidents. That is a different kind of tragedy, one that is easier to recognize and feel. I mean the kind like a wasted life, failing self... I guess like Kierkegaard says about how we can't help noticing the loss of a limb but no one recognizes the loss of self. Or looking back and realizing that I've made the choice not to live over and over again. Shrinking from my fears, never standing up for myself, hiding from life somewhere that feels safe... It reminds me of the tallies Harold was making to figure out if he was in a tragedy or a comedy... His first impression was that he had no control of it, here is this story being written about him that he has no choice but to live as it goes. In a sense he changes because of her voice. Her words open him to a world he had been blind to and answered the dissatisfaction he felt about his life. We all compose a tragedy for ourselves as we go along, not deeply realizing that each choice we make is in compliance with the belief that we should be living that way. Tragically.

And now I want to change my story and I'm shifting between a growing drive and it's opposing feelings- inertia and fear. Like the little girl in me so long ago, who surges up to direct me at my most fragile moments, I feel like I'm looking out over that deep pool -frozen, half paralyzed with intense self doubt and a borderline inability to believe in myself and asking why? why has my choice always been to back away from the pool and never take the chance and is it really impossible for me to jump? Can I change my steps, leave a path that I've tread down to bare dirt? and stay on a new one untouched the whole way? (This blog is like composing a book about my life...) I also worry that in my inclination to dip my foot in the pool and slowly enter at some point I'll say "this far and no further". That as the road becomes rough I'll shrink from it and stop. It seems to me it would almost be easier if it were a physical journey. Because there wouldn't be the added job of deciphering. As much as it scares me to feel physically exhausted and overwhelmed I'm more afraid of the psychological equivalent. I'm afraid I'm still composing a tragedy for myself. The fear hurts and I am sad and tired. Still so unsure. Will I ever know myself?

A lot of women read romance novels, my time at a bookstore as well as at a library has made this amply clear to me. It spans the ages, twenties to eighties, perhaps beyond in both directions? On days when I feel tired (not because I need to sleep) it's like a voice calling to me to give in and become like them. To get married, settle in to the standard life and take up the symbol of unchallenged dissatisfaction and fantasy. I think it is the familiar that appeals to me... Which is odd because I've never read a romance novel. I don't know why it seems like a strange drug that beckons. It's also odd because I have no desire to read the books, just to embrace the symbol they represent- letting go, not fighting the current, relaxing my muscles and floating... Becoming like them. I think it is similar to the feeling my mom would express of wanting to be like the stupid people. It used to seem insane to me, but I think I understand now. It's the voice of death wooing us with what is easy... It's hard to fight against a raging current that goes the opposite direction of our heart.

It's getting harder and harder for me to say the date that books are due, it seems like I'm trying to conjure the memory up from a great distance. Like a barrier stands between me and my recollection of this simple fact...