a while back i was having some roommate troubles. we weren’t seeing eye to eye on our roles at roommates. i felt uncomfortable. i didn’t understand him. i didn’t feel understood or respected. i subsequently spent a lot of time bitching. my bitching landed mostly on the ears of one of my most favorite people ever. (pictured) he told me something that not only helped me understand my roommate but also led to personal inquiry and evaluation.
my ex-roommate was a mountaineer and has climbed (among many others) denali a handful of times. i was bitching about some unimportant something or other that i thought should be common sense to most. what my friend told me is that when one is hanging onto a tiny hold thousands of feet of the ground and the only thing keeping them from certain death is the strength of a few fingers priorities are arranged a little differently. the trivial shit that occupies most of my concern suddenly felt a lot more idiotic than trivial.
i worry about other people’s words too much. i distort them until they resemble my worst nightmare then i tuck them in right next to my heart. or my brain. usually both. i let those words sit right next to the parts of me that define my “me” and i allow them to tell me lies about myself. sometimes i wonder if my life would be better off if i knew the full capacity of what living is. i’m pretty much scared of everything. would i be comfortable in life if i was familiar with the feeling of edging up comfortably close to death, sitting side by side in mutual understanding?
both of these are painted with oils on board.