I don’t really understand emotions. It’s like, I know what they feel like, but I’ve never been persuaded about what they are supposed to constitute. The easiest example is jealousy. I’ve been as bent out of shape and perturbed by my girl being with someone else in an open relationship as I imagine anyone would be. But, my “better” “more logical” self is more compelling. I don’t really care if you want to get off or find someone attractive. I’m not with someone because I trap or hoard their sexuality. That’s the conclusion I come to 364 out of 365 days in which it’s ever presented to me.
And what a volatile situation people treat their sexuality. I’m currently watching The Affair. A compelling, surely award winning in an era of non-oversaturation drama, based around two married people drifting off still sells. It’s no less real the drama of infidelity and the intrigue bread on whether they will stay together or why.
But take something a little more abstract. Maybe it’s your impression of the news. Every day you take in information that glorifies or horrifies the worst examples we as a species can represent. Perhaps you carry on each day, healthy, working on something. Your life could constitute a simple chug on a train making its way to a destination. No gained mile fundamentally different than the last. You simply role with the environment. You internalize and normalize what it expects.
I never want to qualify my sadness. I feel like, you should be sad about things you can fix. I can’t make people talk back. I can’t make people regard what I say as “insightful” or “worthy.” It’d be pretty dumb if 10 years down the line I was going to make up my mind to beat myself up about feedback or lack thereof. Further, I’m not positive I’ve nailed down my “in general” conception of life explanation, so drawing or following some kind of conclusion would be ridiculously stupid.
In common conception, I’m healthy. Even if I’m getting fat, I’m not too fat and not ugly. I have so much shit. I barely know what to do with the thousands of dollars I can get from drug studies, let alone if/when I create something that will net significantly more. I’m not alone. I’m not cold or wanting. Where would I get off being sad?
Maybe it’s a discussion of different kinds of sadness. It’s where you squeeze in the word “existential.” Of course, only to betray and mock those who exist at a “substandard” level. I’m not hungry, but I crave discussions I don’t get. I’m not cold, but I feel my demeanor among a majority of new people. I don’t seek shelter, yet need a canopy of common sense and scholarship that keeps me from putting holes in the walls. I have an enviable sadness. You should dare to dream to be sad like me. I have a privileged angst and desire born from too much free time and opportunity.
It’s a loneliness of spirit. Even phrasing it like that makes me think I’m insulting friends. Even my best friend we’ve never worked together like I’ve worked at my peak. I’m an amalgam of superficial gains. I called the coffee kiosk a glorified lemonade stand. I ridiculed school as I got A’s and B’s. Learning body language makes you a whore (a word I don’t regard pejoratively), not a stud. I read books I recite back to myself or hint at in blogs. I watch shows not even to “nerd out” but so I can be familiar with “media in general” which translates into shitting on something you like for reasons tangentially related to respecting better efforts.
I spend so much time waiting to matter. I think about my grandma so often. Always cooking or cleaning. Always trying to make her home feel like yours. I only know how to buy things. I know how to get the drinks or pay for the tickets. I don’t know how to make you feel at home. I threw parties. Sure, I wanted them to mean something and be memories. But what I got was a lot of resentment. I got fights. I got the kind of lesson that turns so many people against a participatory or empathetic existence.
I guess I have the kind of sadness that only comes from having it all. I miss the friends that were there every day. I miss working on things that probably didn’t matter, but at least had other people there with you. I miss the kind of naïve fervor I had to entertain and get to know people before they were all reduced to boring clichés. I miss feeling like I knew what “genuine” meant when it gummed up the works in my exploration of trying to have friends verses flat manipulation of their sentimentality.
Every time I write I feel like I’m out of things to say.
No comments:
Post a Comment