The Sun Is Not Compatible With Sadness, A Week Later (1st draft) 2007

The sun is not compatible with sadness, but perhaps god is. A week has past since I had wished I’d woke to dreary dampness, grey skies, and low lying clouds, and today I have. Maybe this empty entity, this being, known only to belief, lives and maybe, just maybe, it’s not the bastard I think it, he, she really is.
I guess when I cry and beg in pain, that leads to sleep, preceded by thoughts of ropes around my neck, cold steel in my mouth and shots in the dark, as I cry to the heavens in selfish pity and feel the end, as if the end of the world is upon me, and I have no where to turn, perhaps, just maybe I am heard. And maybe I too believe, maybe I know I will be heard and maybe that’s why I don’t decide my fate. Maybe that is why I sit back in my pain and sleep the day away, or drag myself to work or call and cry to ears who could probably care less of my pain and surely have no answer, no resolve to my anguish, to the conundrum, the equation I can’t seem to wrap my finite self around or at least feel good in my decision. As with all my decisions, the next day, hour, minute or moment, I begin to guess again.
I have no faith that is conscious, unless skepticism is the new religion. But deep inside I have a motor that won’t stop running, a motor that believes I’ll make it, a motor that thinks I can achieve and it will all be ok. But on the surface that’s the hardest sale to sell. On the surface I think it’s a lie, belief, love, marriage, contentment, serenity, happiness, all to me are frauds, something someone else wears in hatred and anger to other people. As religious practice I think it’s all a lie, life is cold, cruel and short. It’s nothing but a fishing line, I’m biting at a lure only to get stabbed in the head just when I thought my hunger was to be filled.
Life is the strangest thing I’ve been involved in. When I go to work today to do the noon news I’ll thank Steve Stucker, the morning weather man at my station, for the clouds and dreariness that has made my soul glow in it’s refuse from endless days of the desert sun. Last week or the week before I thanked Larry Rice, the evening meteorologist, for the cool breeze and the quickly descending evening temperatures, to which he responded “I’m in sales, don’t thank me, I’m not the management.”
Each day Steve ends his newscast telling the viewers to get out there and do something that makes their soul happy followed by a god bless. Fuck Catholicism, maybe it’s all in the seven day forecast. At least these guys don’t touch kids.
Maybe they are in tune, all their looking to the clouds, the wind, the earth, their personal understanding of what makes each day the way it is, their knowledge of it’s impermanence and knowing things could change, their not right, their just guessing with what they have at hand.
At night, when I fall asleep with the light on I feel the fear of what they have embraced. I’m alone now, my life’s little bit’s of certainty were removed in a day, in a single act of another person who took an oath of certainty. I fall asleep with the light on in fear, in fear of the uncertainty; I drag through the day with depression, seeking to turn known unknowns into known knowns. I do this for my sanity, for my soul, to find happiness, only to create more sadness and anguish and depression, because I don’t have what it takes to be weather man. I don’t have the resolve to take the information at hand, decide what it means and say it out loud, and move on to the next day whether I was right or wrong.