The Comical Tragedy that is My Life

I've decided that my life is becoming a series of inescapable patterns. I sleep in every morning because I stayed up too late the night before. I enroll in school anew each Fall, only to be completely disassociated with the concept come Winter. I work all summer, and yet somehow, I have no money to show for it, just a summer romance that started who knows how. I date the same three people over and over. They all have different names, but wait, oh scratch that sometimes the names repeat. It becomes necessary to explain the difference when I talk about the past, because all the events seem so similar. Recurring.

I am caught in a time warp. Every new thing I try settles into the same old rythm, and I hate it. People with names that rhyme with showy or dreg should be avoided at ALL costs. A brief moment of complete newness becomes special and treasured. Where is the novelty? For someone who thrives on creativity, I am surprisingly unoriginal. I make the same mistakes that everyone else does, only they know better and so do I. I observe, and yet I learn little about what causes bliss. I search for comfort, and when I find it I abhorr it. Safety, protection, routine... all these are things I can't live with or without. When will I reconcile the thirst for adventure with the practicality that is in my nature? How can I stop the harmful patterns from repeating, when they seem to come unnanounced and uninvited, but most often?

And why doesn't perfection repeat itself? Why is it only the faults that keep fissuring over and over, into chasms that we can't escape? Is it our nature to need painful lessons over and over, when the good ones stick after only one try? In Shakespeare, the comedies are defined by an embellishment of characters as worse than they are. More flawed. More prone to making mistakes. And in the beginning, everyone is either broke, in jail, a confirmed bachelor or spinster, terminally ill, insane, scheduled to die, or on the run. Sometimes all of the above. In the end, though, everyone whose lives sucked at the start turns around completely. Their ships come in, aquittal sweeps in from the wings and saves them from follies, and they get married. But only after about two and a half hours of shennanagins, mix-ups, and hamartias.

Tragically, the cycle is the same, only the hero(es), who are painted as idealistic representations of human life (demi-gods), start out on top of the world, and then usually die at the end. This is as a result of something they did that could've been avoided. Hubris (unforgivable pride), hamartia (a tragic mistake), or just a blatant disregard for fate.

So which type of hero am I? On days like today, I'm willing to believe myself the tragic heroine. A slave to fate, and no matter what I try to do to stop it or turn things around, everything still works out exactly as the blind man predicted. Chaos. Loss, horribly short sighted mistakes. And a lack of creativity that leaves them stuck going through the plot without a clue.

I suppose things could be worse. I could, afterall, be the one who dies at the beginning of the play.