Sloth in a Swimming Pool

It was like watching sloth trying to swim across a swimming pool. You wouldn’t expect it to happen quickly or even at all for that matter. If anything, the outcome would likely end with the sloth sinking to the bottom. 

But he still tried. 

Passion makes people do dumb things. Like telling someone you love them when you shouldn’t. When you’re young or even old and inexperienced, you might miss the little voice telling you to stop. Like a chef who knows just the right amount of salt for her dish. A pinch extra won’t ruin it. It will still probably make an excellent dish. But the overall experience will fall short and neither the chef nor the diner will be able to explain why. Missing by a mountain is sometimes better than missing by a grain. 

Music was his salt. He’d been in and out of bands for years. He played multiple instruments but he wasn’t exceptional at any of them. Some of the bands made perfect sense but for one reason or another would disband. His personality was not fit to be a musician. He didn’t need pot to write. He worked hard and gave himself deadlines. This meant he often outworked his bandmates which kept him in a constant state of mild frustration. He’d even held what looked to be success in his hands a few times only for it to disappear into smoke like olive oil being forgotten in a pan on the stove. I often wonder what he would have done had he actually attained success. 

From all the movies I’ve seen, it only would have made him a worse person. It would have affirmed all of his toxic characteristics that he thought success required.

His positive traits were so wonderfully unique. His loyalty to people when he loved them gave people a lightness. He had the rare ability to cut tension in the face of even the most extreme circumstances. Like little concentrated hits of oxygen. Although he was charming with women, he didn’t have the slightest clue when they were interested in him. The only times he would have the courage to hit on other women was when he was nearly blackout drunk which meant I was more worried about him getting hit by a car or beaten up from mouthing off to someone than cheating on me. He wasn’t burdened by the world and was a happy drunk for the most part. Somehow, the problems that plague most of us just rolled off his shoulder. And he loved me. And he would tell me. And I knew it was true. 

But even in failure he let the bad traits continue. Foolishly. Like someone driving in the rain and refusing to turn on the windshield wipers. Drops collected until everything became blurry, even the things that were right in front of him. 

Once he played me a song and I cried. He’d taken me to a place buried deep inside that I thought I’d forgotten. He had undressed me emotionally without even knowing. But his reaction to my approval was like a small boys, invalidating and almost as if he’d shrugged it off. It used to make me feel inferior in an instant. Like the slight jolt of fear from a balloon being popped. It was that quick. A mirage of effervescent thought vanishing in an instant. Now I realize his own inferiority was infectious. It came from his inability to reach the emotional depths he strained about in his songs. 

In those moments it became clear that something was missing in his music that he would never be able to find. A missing page in a book where the story would always be incomplete. A dish being served without its perfect sprinkle of salt. 

It broke my heart some days and on others brought me peace. 

Oddly. He still judged his work harshly. At least in front of me he did. For all I know in private he was singing along to his own songs while driving around town. Bathing in himself as he passed judgement on people who he decided looked in the mirror too much as if vanity could only be expressed through admiration of one’s physical appearance. 

What used to bring us happiness was no longer what we exchanged with each other. Now, I felt as if I was looking at an abandoned amusement park. A place that was once beautiful and shiny and new. Where you could still hear the jingle of the merry-go-round as the whoosh of the roller coasters blew the smell of cheesy nachos and fresh popped popcorn into you and the air buzzed, electrified by the sound of children running from place-to-place and lovers walking hand-in-hand sharing cotton candy. What was once a place of joy was now vast and quiet. Left with broken remains covered in dust over time until someone finally put forth the effort to tear it down and start over. 

He’d never been challenged to accept reality. But how could he? When everyone around him, friends and families, didn’t have the heart to say it. His loved ones encouraged him while his lovers suffered. 

I could see my future and I just couldn’t continue. A rock being smoothed over, year after year from his jaded river of inadequacy until all the edges were gone. The funny thing about complaining is that no matter how cleverly its packaged people still feel it the same way. They feel it like a toothache. Your presence becomes a burden and your energy gets yanked from you like a purse off an old lady. 

I hope something or someone jars him hard enough that he’s spun around and forced to look his blind spot in the eyes. Love isn’t just something you sing about, little boy. It’s not just something that will be given to you if you write the right words on a paper. You don’t just receive it. It’s something you act on. It’s something that without acting on doesn’t exist. It’s not just laughter and bottles of wine. It’s supporting someone through their dark, dark, dark hours. 

But not when they bring the dark on themselves like he did. A little boy on a bed drowning himself in king-size comforters. A sloth susceptible to drowning in the shallow end of a pool.