Deconstruction/Reconstruction - a lame addiction or a fancy dance?

I don't have a subject in mind.  I'm just going to start typing.  I'm feeling like writing in a way that would help me to unleash a little sadness.  I feel it banging on my ribs.  Swelling behind my eyes.  I have no idea where it is coming from.  Well, of course I do.  I could name ten things quicker than I could name nine things... couldn't we all?  But, what I realized when I was a late teen living in Holland doing what Americans in Holland do... is that we systematically ignore things because we have strategy, not necessarily because we are in denial.  

I mean there were many times in my life when I would sob so hard I was looking like a set of great dane jowls.  Wah wah wah wah wah... and where did it get me?  The next day, I'd think, "Why did I even go there?  What did I get out of that?"  At first it seems so brave and courageous to dance with the boogie monster, but it's like hooking up with a guy you long ago realized has nothing to offer and always leaves you broke.  Don't do it!  Realize your own tactics once you acquire them.  I truly believe that I have a strategy to my ignorance towards myself.  

There are certain things that will always (always) make me sad and there is nothing I can do about them, so why let myself go there?  What I'm thinking might be more powerful than pulling off the sexiest dip with the boogie man, is instead walking right up to the line between you and your sadness, pressing your face against it in a painful Jim Carrey style contortion  (if you don't know what I'm talking about, just pretend to smell your tooth and be disgusted by it), and finally, snarfing a snot rocket right on the window of that helpless closet of your soul.  Yes I declare laughter is the cure.  

I am venturing to believe that there is something funny about everything.  I don't care how sad it is.  I don't care how sweet it smells.  I don't know what the funny things are about the saddest things I've got haunting me, but I'm going to try to figure it out.  I'm trying to really hard right now, and it's making me want to slap myself across the face, but I'm gonna push through this exercise and see if it results in any sort of new muscle tone.  Along the way, I might also have to chuck a few stuffed duckie toys at the wall with the intensity of a rhino - that one's for you Holly : )

I think my blog posts are getting weirder and weirder.  But seriously, think of your favorite funny movie, and then insert the most tragic scenes of your life into it.  I know it feels wrong, careless, wreckless and cowardly even, but just let yourself for a moment imagine that it its a celestial road less travelled, a procession towards the heights of the most vertical labryinth, and that all of the world's followers will begin to grab onto your coat tails like it was an f-ing magic carpet ride.

I'm starting to wonder if I'm becoming an escape artist or a life artist.  Perhaps that is the thinnest line.  Thinner than the line that runs between passion and grace.  But really, is there any purpose for sadness?  Does it serve anyone?  What is the point of it?  That it shows us how much we had?  What good does it do to recognize what you had.  We only have time to recognize what we have, right?  Is there time for anything else?  

But there it is, still in my ribs, still behind my eyes.  What is it trying to tell me?  What does it want me to do.  The tears want to come out like tea in a boiling kettle.  It's another one of those nights where for no singular alpha reason am I about to blow.  

Isn't it a bit like yoga.  Sometimes I wonder about yoga.  Does it really make you feel that great?  I mean, when you walk out of the class, do you feel great, or is it just so great to feel the way you feel when you're not doing yoga.  You contort yourself into the most uncomfortable positions, and then when you're out of them, they're telling you you should feel great.  But maybe it's just a roundabout way of appreciating what it feels like to just feel the way you normally feel.  

Same thing with having some sort of emotional release.  Does it really feel that good when it's over, or does it just feel so much better to be how you normally are after throwing yourself through the fires of hell?  Is the only way to feel great about ourselves to break up with our togetherness, fall apart, and put ourselves back together?  I'm beating a dead horse.  Or am I avoiding doing just that?

In deconstruction/reconstruction is there really a release or is it actually the opposite of a release.  Is it a reception? Oh hell, it's both, simultaneously.  Those wise men and their two opposite truths being true at the same time.  I'm all dorked out.  Time to go google the science of tears.