"The shadow, it covers your face . . ."
I'll turn 23 in a week. To celebrate, I'll go to all my classes and be back home around 9 and will probably be very tired but think I need to do homework that I won't get around to and then I'll rush to do it in the morning.
I'd rather drive. To the desert, perhaps . . . somewhere remote, somewhere it'd take weeks to find a missing person. I'd rather explore and discover, to return newly emerged with a robust energy I've been lacking for most of the year.
Some have recently asked me "How are you?" and my responses keep amounting to "I'm terrified, but ok day-to-day." I'm becoming less sure about the day-to-day . . . they keep creeping by, and then I'm closer to the probability that I'll have to begin a 'normal career path' after I graduate.
"What's wrong with that?" I can imagine in the voice of the many. "It's what everyone does, and everyone's fine with it."
It's getting harder for me to see the point in trying to prove, and then proceed to justify, how I'm not everyone. How, in fact, I'm vibrantly opposed to everyone. If I successfully convince everyone, then I show them how they don't understand me. If I fail to convince everyone, then I know their understanding of me is flawed.
I've been striving towards the Zarathustrian ideal, believing myself capable of staying on my feet as everyone necessarily attempts to pull me down. The weight magnifies exponentially. It manifests in apathy, in lessening appetite . . . in the constant voice behind my internal narrative that asks "Why should anyone care?"
Most of anyone is everyone, after all . . . I'm just someone, and my someone is one without the nets and scaffolding everyone so often relies on.
I'm told to "hold out hope," but the voices so freely offering this advice are always those who've already settled. It's impossible to ask them what hope there's ever been . . . they've never been me, and the ones who have demonstrated knowledge of abyss-gazing, of looking deeply into the darkness of human potential, always end up agreeing that hope really is a sham.
I don't know what to do next.
I'd rather drive. To the desert, perhaps . . . somewhere remote, somewhere it'd take weeks to find a missing person. I'd rather explore and discover, to return newly emerged with a robust energy I've been lacking for most of the year.
Some have recently asked me "How are you?" and my responses keep amounting to "I'm terrified, but ok day-to-day." I'm becoming less sure about the day-to-day . . . they keep creeping by, and then I'm closer to the probability that I'll have to begin a 'normal career path' after I graduate.
"What's wrong with that?" I can imagine in the voice of the many. "It's what everyone does, and everyone's fine with it."
It's getting harder for me to see the point in trying to prove, and then proceed to justify, how I'm not everyone. How, in fact, I'm vibrantly opposed to everyone. If I successfully convince everyone, then I show them how they don't understand me. If I fail to convince everyone, then I know their understanding of me is flawed.
I've been striving towards the Zarathustrian ideal, believing myself capable of staying on my feet as everyone necessarily attempts to pull me down. The weight magnifies exponentially. It manifests in apathy, in lessening appetite . . . in the constant voice behind my internal narrative that asks "Why should anyone care?"
Most of anyone is everyone, after all . . . I'm just someone, and my someone is one without the nets and scaffolding everyone so often relies on.
I'm told to "hold out hope," but the voices so freely offering this advice are always those who've already settled. It's impossible to ask them what hope there's ever been . . . they've never been me, and the ones who have demonstrated knowledge of abyss-gazing, of looking deeply into the darkness of human potential, always end up agreeing that hope really is a sham.
I don't know what to do next.
posted by SJ at 10/07/2008 09:49:00 PM
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