Crackers, cupcakes, spiders, and now beeswax candles.  How is it I can hang my dreams and desperation upon such trivial objects?  I am seriously considering finding a therapist.

Thursday I woke up around 7 to go to work and open the restaurant.  As I began I my office work, I noticed someone had placed a gift in my box.  It was wrapped and had my name written on it, though no name from the benefactor.  I unwrapped it to discover two hand-made beeswax candles.  I was perplexed, not only at the bizarre nature of the gift itself but also who it could’ve been from, and what prompted them to give me this gift.  I shrugged and put the candles in my box and went back to work.

It was shortly after that the brain began its destructive onslaught of abuse.  I started thinking about people in my life who were and are genuinely generous.  Just plain nice people.  There are many.  They give without motive, they show consideration at every turn, from the guy who calls me at random hours and invites me to free activities he’s stumbled upon or tells me about articles he’s read that I might enjoy, to the kitchen staff who make themselves delicious lunch entrees that aren’t on the menu and make enough to share with everyone, always plating a dish for me without provocation.  The bartenders who spend all day baking and bring in cupcakes or brownies or cookies.  My wife, who randomly picks up cupcakes for her co-workers if she happens to see the food truck while out on her lunch break. 

I tried to think of the last time I had given someone something for no apparent reason other than the act, itself.  Or the last time I called a friend just to say hi.  Or the last time I brought my wife something merely because I thought she might like it…

And I couldn’t recall.  I don’t think I’m nice enough.  I try to be considerate of the people around me, and I’m generous with my word, but I don’t feel that I’m kind.  I try to pay attention to my close friends, but those on the peripheral of my life (acquaintances, co-workers, bar friends) get the short end of the stick.  It’s as simple as recognizing that these generous people in my life think of me when I’m not standing in front of them, whereas I do not.  I’m slowly shutting down my social life.

There is a series of commercials on TV right now about mental illness, sponsored by a San Diego service that strives to bring awareness to the reality of this affliction.  In one, an older couple is recounting how the wife began to close herself off from her friends and withdraw into herself, and she and her husband at first thought it was a natural part of aging, but looked deeper into the phenomena and talked about it and discovered that she had mild depression and together they sought out help for her.

I think I need help.

Earlier that same morning, I was walking the last few blocks from the bus stop to work and I sneezed; a very violent, wet sneeze.  As I was wiping the viscous snot from my hand, I was disappointed that there was no blood in it.  I am so bored with my life that I want affliction, sickness, hardship.  I am coasting through an idyllic life (beautiful loving wife, great job, decent pay, good friends, good health) and I am miserable.

Later that same afternoon, I removed a dead sea-gull from the middle of fourth street.  I had stepped out to smoke a cigarette and saw it on the yellow line in the street.  People were slowing their cars as they drove past to look at it; pedestrians were either ignoring it or pointing at it in horror and disgust.  It was a pretty big bird, and no one had the resolve to do anything about it.  With a surgeon’s detachment, I went back inside, got plastic gloves and a large trash bag, walked straight up to it, picked it up by its broken, formless neck, and placed it in the bag.  I tied the bag off and threw it in a nearby dumpster, peeled off the gloves, washed my hands, and went back to work.

Is this who I am?  An automaton who can’t go out of his way for the living but easily reconciles with the dead?  Every day I wear the same emotionless expression, carrying on empty conversations with an endless parade of strangers and passersby, and feeling nothing. 

The only thing I feel these days is regret for feeling nothing.