It is always there, lurking beneath the surface. Microscopic. Whether the sun is out, or the breezes are gently tempered with relief from placid stillness. It’s there. Surrounding conditions are unpredictable in their ability to influence changes in it. It blooms, of its on accord, like an undesirable high maintenance house guest. It’s indiscriminate of survival conditions, and unpredictable in duration. Ever present and under the best conditions, self-contained in innocuous packaging like generic seasoning that remains on a dusty shelf long after the flavor loses its intensity.

What it is, exactly, is difficult to define, whether due to the limitations of my vocabulary, or the plethora of words available. Some too general, lending an unfair blanketed assessment, other’s too specific, not allowing latitude for varying symptoms. Maybe in definitive terms, it doesn’t matter. The point being simply it is there. In good times and bad.

It’s not debilitating, nor deserving of an over-priced pharmaceutical solution; there are plenty of worthy neuroses that are, but this isn’t one of them. It’s knowing logically, and humbly that there is nothing worthy of complaint, yet indifference blankets most of the expressive of emotions. It’s possible to present it in embossed packaging with a silver foil logo as the ultimate in pragmatism, but it is nothing but overpriced packaging. Just an artificial allure to present a product in a better light to make it more marketable to the masses. But a pig in a tuxedo is still a pig.

I warned my partner before we married, I was this way. Distant, brooding, and blatantly inconsolable. I didn’t want to drag him into the emotional inertia, but selfishly I wanted to be with him. He assured me he could handle it, but I don’t think he knew exactly what it was or how long it could last. It’s easy to be optimistic about your influence in someone’s life when you are madly in love, or passionately in heat, whichever applies, as it is difficult to determine the difference in the moment.

It’s different being me with a partner. I have to put more effort into casting my selfishness aside, and not having negative influence over his mood simply because I am lost in my head. He isn’t to blame, as I have need this way since adolescence, I don’t want to subject him to my inconsolability. Though in truth, I don’t think he’s noticed. He wouldn’t be aware of my lack of posting; the most obvious sign. In fact, I prefer he not notice, as it means I haven’t upset the balance of his life too much.

Ultimately, what does it mean? Not much. I have trouble finding the right words. The good things, are usually ordinary things of little significance when translated into words, and read like utter tedium. Fuck me to tears, pass out from boredom normal. The things that get under my skin, stinging like nettles, and spreading like poison ivy? Those translate into self-indulgent whining. After eliminating those self-serving narratives, there is frequently little to say.