Room Inside a Box

"There is no room inside a box." ~Doug Pinnick

Location: Tamaqua, Pennsylvania, United States

I started this blog as a soundboard for some much needed therapy during my separation with my wife throughout much of 2005. It was truly a blessing to get my thoughts out there through the writing process. Thankfully things have worked out between us. I would have continued to blog, but ever since I started my teaching career, I have found it impossible to do as much blogging as I would like to. So now I hope to periodically post as time and energy allow.

Sunday, September 11, 2005


My dad always said, "There's no such thing as a free ride."
But what happens when you feel you've already paid your toll? What happens when you feel like you've given everything you've got only to find out that you're the only one who has paid?

I have no one to blame except myself and even I acknowledge that I probably can't take responsibility for my problem. Hell, no one can. Unless there's a God who insists on fucking with me. Maybe Mother Nature? Fate? Or maybe I should just chalk it up to damn misfortune, like I have been trying to do. Luck of the draw. Short straw. Story of my life. Shitty end of the proverbial stick. It's certainly easier if no one is to blame.

But yet I feel broken. I feel dysfunctional. For some reason, something natural and easy for everyone else is a complete obstacle for me. But I like having a scientific reason. Balanced Robertsonian Transfer. I like the definite, point-to-it reason instead of looking into things I've done or said. We so often try to make sense of things, try to reason them out, but there there are some things that have no reason. They just simply suck.

There is a song by the Indigo Girls that contains the line: "If we ever leave a legacy, it's that we loved each other well." I like that idea. Is legacy the reason why we even choose to have children? We need someone to leave our 1st edition Hemingway to? Or does it go much deeper than that? Or perhaps even shallower? Perhaps we are all just a product of sexual pleasure, a remains to the act that was performed. Kind of like burnout from a tire or steam from a kettle. Just a temporary sign. A really elaborate way to write on the bathroom stall of life: I WAZ HERE.

I wish I knew what caused us to want to have children because then I would turn it off in my own mind. Just when I think I've done a successful job at switching it off, I am thrown to the floor by the force of it. It is my kryptonite.

I am on the floor. There's nothing like six billion examples in front of you showing you so many, many people that could do what you cannot do.


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