Feb 13 2002
I envy normal people.
I am aware, rationally,
that these so-called normal people
look to me with envy.
I am aware, that, in fact,
there is no such thing as normal people.
I’ll put it this way:
I envy anyone without a major vice,
addiction, character flaw or personality disorder.
I have all of these things.
I feel as though some invisible
but highly palpable psychic booger
is hanging from a prominent place
on my visage.
Any idiot should be able to perceive
this booger, this gap, this wound,
at the center of my soul.
And I wonder, “if I am this good a con man,
what is everyone else hiding?”
But my envy is emotional, is not amenable
to my carefully reasoned and observed
perception that there are no normal people
in the world,
that to be alive in these times
is to be disordered
and full of concealed untidy fragments.
I envy normal people with normal lives;
with homes, families, jobs.
These are the good people engaged so fulsomely
in the pursuit of happiness.
Far from pursuing happiness, I have long since abandoned myself
to the avoidance of misery
by any reasonable means.
After fifteen years of therapy,
I’ve given up on health, happiness, thriving,
any of those curiously modern concepts
with which we aggravate ourselves.
I still envy normal people.
But I have decided to engage myself
in a ferocious loyalty to my abnormality.
It has, like an old friend, sustained me
these many years.
I’m afraid of what I might lose,
if I became, suddenly, in spite of my envy,
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