girlfriend in a coma

I know, I know, its serious. girl, i know, its serious. despite how much i think it shouldnt be, how much i should be acting a fool, or being light, or free, or jovial, its serious. life. and i know its serious that this is the wrong approach. serious is as serious does and stress and headache and heartache and rigidity and formality and order and control and, gurl, its serious. the end. thats the end of it. i dont know, its easy to be serious in my life of one. my unemployed, queer, illusion filled life, its serious. its just me and its serious its also kind of miserable, but if i felt like there was anything i could do about that, then well, i guess i would do something. i have been thinking lately about the relationship between misery and pleasure in my life. mostly, when i investigate questions in about my life, i come up with this great big 'i dont fucking know' like, i free to myself to be miserable, if that is what i want, and so i am misery, and then i am miserable and trapped but also aware of some conscious allowing of these feelings, this place, and its not like i want to deny it, but the real question is: does being miserable make me happy? i think you can see the paradoxes of such a question. what does it matter if i am happy if i am also miserable. i dont know. this year, man. this wrecked year. my isolation. really, what i think it is about is a radical shift in personal philosophy, which may sound abstract or esoteric but has real, everyday, implications in my life. personal philosophy is what creates the map: the hills, values, constraints. without it, there is void, a lack of relativity. so, what i am faced with is the creations of something so big and ranging and varied that my conscious, thinking able mind is helpless to create, can only peak in, report on progress, make criticisms, offer feedback. because for years there was a manic rolling optimism that guided my life, and then the charms stopped. things fall apart, touch is lost, time passes, and here i stand, one foot in depression, one foot kicking dirt on its grave. and really, all i keep doing is praying or hoping or thinking that i must need some intervention of the fate/ destiny variety. you know, the kind of world occurrence that forces a change or a shock out of self absorption. like, im just waiting on something to happen, for the time to be right for something else to go on. waiting to get out of the stables and run the race. i dont know, nothing absolute, you know. just variances and varieties and an undeniable knowing that this train is bound for glory.