I go through these phases of loving my life, wanting more from my life, absolutely hating the majority of my life, and then back again. What's scary is that very rarely is this change of heart caused by a major event, or a sudden revelation. It truly is my mind that takes me there. Sometimes I find myself extremely aware of my surroundings, completely conscious to my situation and my connection to the world around me. And it can be terrifying-- to feel so insignificant in a world full of billions of people, and yet feel like the center of something at the exact same time.
Sometimes I envy the common person who has no clue where they are in life-- simply happy to be here. And I'm not saying they're less of a person because they aren't awakened, but they certainly have less worries. What is the trade-off for knowing? How much sleep do I lose at night by knowing what type of person I am, what type of person I'm not...and the worst one, what type of person I could be?
This isn't one of those times where I'm suddenly awakened and hating life...not even close. I'm actually just studying for my World Literature Final Exam. Dostoevsky to be exact. The Underground Man feels the same way, but mostly just hates himself for who he is. And he also hates everyone else...for being who they are. Not taking life for face-value, The Underground Man criticizes the way man perceives the world, easily believing everything they hear. For me, it doesn't really bother me to know that some people just take things as they come, because I know I fall victim to that type of living from time to time. But what gets me is when I open my eyes and take a good look around, and I actually see the things I've been missing out on. I see the passion and the beauty, but I also see the disparity and tragedy on every doorstep. And then I stop to think about how I can't change every tragic story I read about, and I fall victim to my insignificant thinking. I fall victim to my insecurities about remaining a genuine human being.
And now that I've completely gone off track from the Underground Man's angry thinking, I will return to my studies, somehow a little more disconnected from his pessimism this time around.
Showing posts with label Lonesome Thinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lonesome Thinking. Show all posts
Monday, May 9, 2011
Monday, December 27, 2010
-3 Degrees Celsius.
9:15 on a winter Monday morning. I wonder what the Parisians are doing right now. I'm sure the city is mostly desolate, as many of its inhabitants have headed to the mountains for their winter ski trips. But I'm sure the natural sparkle of the city goes on. Family-owned shops are still opened, and sidewalks must be swept up so that les propriétaires des brasseries can begin a new week. And while the weather may be drastically different from the 95 degree sweltering heat I grew accustomed to, and while the clouds may never part during a winters' day, I'm sure that the radiance of the city's wonder will shine on nonetheless.
Madame Dru must still be sleeping, or either sitting in her kitchen smoking while enjoying a cup of steaming hot black English tea. A piece of toast will suffice until she heads off to work, grabbing a bit of quiche or salade on her way. I wonder what free-spirited ring she has selected for herself today. Perhaps the clear ring with all the rhinestones to compliment her black sarong, or maybe a swirled design to jazz up her simple yet purposeful Birkenstock sandals.
«Les Bagues des Rêves», Chez Rosine, 2010
Then again, this is Rosine we're talking about. Two days after Christmas, she probably hasn't seen her children much this fall, and she doesn't really enjoy working. So she's probably traveling, or sleeping in late-- enjoying a good existential piece of literature, sipping tea and/or Diet Coke.
And here I am, restless and neurotic in my home-home, at 2:15 in the morning. My mind wanders from street to street, trying to relive all the life-changing moments of my Parisian escapades. As frustrating and confusing the city was on a day-to-day basis, I couldn't help but fall in love with the wave of emotions. For such a seemingly reserved culture, French folks really wear their emotions on their sleeve. When they're mad, they show you...in hand gestures, in words, and in eyebrow scrunching. And when they're happy, they attempt to smile and usually kiss your cheeks like they've just seen a long-lost friend. But one thing you can count on with any strong emotion is the repetitiveness of their words. Usually in threesomes.
Très très trèèèès bien.
But why do these peculiar details intrigue me so? Why do I weep for the strange friends I made on the streets, in cafés, in dark bars and late-night streets? Why do I crave the scent of foreign second-hand smoke wafting through the streets accompanied by the distinct scent of freshly baked croissants and quiches? And why is it that I'd rather sit on a dirty metro for 30 minutes than in my own air-conditioned car during a traffic jam?
I of course have an answer for all of these questions, but am not brave enough to face it. So I lay awake sometimes for hours each night, thinking about my life in Paris this past summer, the friends I made out of complete strangers, and the odd sense of welcome I felt each night at la fontaine Saint Michel. And despite the fountain being a tourist hot-spot, I never felt like a tourist. I always received a warm greeting from the performers who recognized me, who understood that I could not pay them each night I watched their routines, but saw how much I valued their passion and talent.
So I lie here awake, feeling guilty for wishing to go back so soon in life. Guilty for not wishing to visit my own country in greater depth, fearing that if I don't go back now, I never will. Or worse, my friends and French family will have forgotten me by the time I manage to "get my act together" and return.
But somehow, the mere image of crowded outdoor cafés steaming with guests and their daily gossip brings me right back into the wave of French culture I dreamed about before even embarking on my adventure. My heart aches for so many things. And right now it aches most for my humble yet dark and twisty hippie of a host mother, the reassuring feeling of solitude, Centre Pompidou, a quietly messy salon, the shuffle of the metro, and a 4 euro bottle of Champagne to be shared among friends at sunrise for no particular reason other than the sheer factor of being young.
My heart aches, and it's an ache that hasn't faded. An ache that won't fade.
«The Best Chicken on a Stick Ever», Chez Rosine, 2010
Madame Dru must still be sleeping, or either sitting in her kitchen smoking while enjoying a cup of steaming hot black English tea. A piece of toast will suffice until she heads off to work, grabbing a bit of quiche or salade on her way. I wonder what free-spirited ring she has selected for herself today. Perhaps the clear ring with all the rhinestones to compliment her black sarong, or maybe a swirled design to jazz up her simple yet purposeful Birkenstock sandals.
«Les Bagues des Rêves», Chez Rosine, 2010
Then again, this is Rosine we're talking about. Two days after Christmas, she probably hasn't seen her children much this fall, and she doesn't really enjoy working. So she's probably traveling, or sleeping in late-- enjoying a good existential piece of literature, sipping tea and/or Diet Coke.
And here I am, restless and neurotic in my home-home, at 2:15 in the morning. My mind wanders from street to street, trying to relive all the life-changing moments of my Parisian escapades. As frustrating and confusing the city was on a day-to-day basis, I couldn't help but fall in love with the wave of emotions. For such a seemingly reserved culture, French folks really wear their emotions on their sleeve. When they're mad, they show you...in hand gestures, in words, and in eyebrow scrunching. And when they're happy, they attempt to smile and usually kiss your cheeks like they've just seen a long-lost friend. But one thing you can count on with any strong emotion is the repetitiveness of their words. Usually in threesomes.
Très très trèèèès bien.
But why do these peculiar details intrigue me so? Why do I weep for the strange friends I made on the streets, in cafés, in dark bars and late-night streets? Why do I crave the scent of foreign second-hand smoke wafting through the streets accompanied by the distinct scent of freshly baked croissants and quiches? And why is it that I'd rather sit on a dirty metro for 30 minutes than in my own air-conditioned car during a traffic jam?
I of course have an answer for all of these questions, but am not brave enough to face it. So I lay awake sometimes for hours each night, thinking about my life in Paris this past summer, the friends I made out of complete strangers, and the odd sense of welcome I felt each night at la fontaine Saint Michel. And despite the fountain being a tourist hot-spot, I never felt like a tourist. I always received a warm greeting from the performers who recognized me, who understood that I could not pay them each night I watched their routines, but saw how much I valued their passion and talent.
So I lie here awake, feeling guilty for wishing to go back so soon in life. Guilty for not wishing to visit my own country in greater depth, fearing that if I don't go back now, I never will. Or worse, my friends and French family will have forgotten me by the time I manage to "get my act together" and return.
But somehow, the mere image of crowded outdoor cafés steaming with guests and their daily gossip brings me right back into the wave of French culture I dreamed about before even embarking on my adventure. My heart aches for so many things. And right now it aches most for my humble yet dark and twisty hippie of a host mother, the reassuring feeling of solitude, Centre Pompidou, a quietly messy salon, the shuffle of the metro, and a 4 euro bottle of Champagne to be shared among friends at sunrise for no particular reason other than the sheer factor of being young.
My heart aches, and it's an ache that hasn't faded. An ache that won't fade.
«The Best Chicken on a Stick Ever», Chez Rosine, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A little help from a wise woman.
"Ultimately, we have just one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves, more and more peace, and to reflect it toward others. And the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will also be in our troubled world." --Etty Hillesum
Helping others find peace does not find me peace. And it doesn't find peace for the people I interact with on a daily basis. Instead of looking to fix everyone else's problems, why can't I just stop and look at the situations I'm creating? Why can't I look at the people I'm hurting, instead of the strangers who are hurting themselves and begging for help? I'm a troubled, reckless little girl with only a few vague directions in life. And I guess that's how most twenty-year olds are, but for some reason I find myself in this extreme version of that lifestyle. And I'm not at all sure how I ended up in this place, hurting the people I love the most and only feeling bitter and alone at the end of the day.
"It gets more confusing everyday. Sometimes it's heaven sent, then we head back to hell again." --John Legend
Helping others find peace does not find me peace. And it doesn't find peace for the people I interact with on a daily basis. Instead of looking to fix everyone else's problems, why can't I just stop and look at the situations I'm creating? Why can't I look at the people I'm hurting, instead of the strangers who are hurting themselves and begging for help? I'm a troubled, reckless little girl with only a few vague directions in life. And I guess that's how most twenty-year olds are, but for some reason I find myself in this extreme version of that lifestyle. And I'm not at all sure how I ended up in this place, hurting the people I love the most and only feeling bitter and alone at the end of the day.
"It gets more confusing everyday. Sometimes it's heaven sent, then we head back to hell again." --John Legend
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
midday fight.
ever since i can remember i've fought for the underdog, given the sucker a second chance, and always tried to see the brighter side of things for everyone...but myself. and it's never really occurred to me that fighting for myself is just as important as fighting for the world. i never felt gipped or jaded by what has happened to me-- just hurt and confused.
but i do ignore myself a lot of the time. i do worry about others when i should be worrying about myself; and to be honest, i'm not entirely sure what it feels like to fight for myself anymore. i have these passive mannerisms that i use to imitate what fighting for myself would be like, but i haven't directly fought for myself in a very long time.
that's not to say that i just lay down and surrender to people, but when it comes to making decisions for myself, for what i want, and for what will make me (and sometimes only me) happy, i let a lot of opportunities pass me by.
there's a huge difference between being selfish and wanting what's best for yourself.
so maybe for now i can just work on fighting for myself, for what i believe in, and for what i need from life.
but i do ignore myself a lot of the time. i do worry about others when i should be worrying about myself; and to be honest, i'm not entirely sure what it feels like to fight for myself anymore. i have these passive mannerisms that i use to imitate what fighting for myself would be like, but i haven't directly fought for myself in a very long time.
that's not to say that i just lay down and surrender to people, but when it comes to making decisions for myself, for what i want, and for what will make me (and sometimes only me) happy, i let a lot of opportunities pass me by.
there's a huge difference between being selfish and wanting what's best for yourself.
so maybe for now i can just work on fighting for myself, for what i believe in, and for what i need from life.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
New Beginnings
It would be an understatement to say that I can't count on two hands how many times I've searched for something new-- for how many times I've run away from what I have. And I don't necessarily only run away from things I'm scared of, upset about, or even angry at...I tend to run from things I grow tired of. It's not that I'm a bored person in general, because I can always find something to do, or something to entertain myself with, but I never feel satisfied with what is in front of me.
Some people call that ambition, or a taste for adventure, but sometimes I think of it as a curse. Never being fully satisfied with the life I have is very tiresome at times. Always wanting to help people, travel somewhere new, make more money, buy something else small that makes me happy-- it all just exhausts me.
And when I can get away from my life, I pretend that the few days I have to ignore reality will somehow fix every problem I'm faced with. Those few days where everyone wears a smile and gets along, will somehow finish my homework assignments, clear up my daddy issues, and deposit money into my bank account.
The Holiday season is approaching, but all I can think about is how I will do at the Orange and Green Meet...how I will do on my French paper that I haven't started...and how I will ever be able to clear my mind into enjoying the Holiday season.
Maybe, for the next two weeks I should just close my heart into a library book and hide it away on a shelf in the stacks. That way, I can get my work done and train the way I need to without having to stop and worry every three seconds if someone is trying to break into my house, if I paid my credit card bill, or my never-ending medical bill, or if my car has enough gas to get to class tomorrow. And maybe after finals are over, I'll be able to focus on what I actually care about, solving worldly issues and falling more in love with my best friend.
Some people call that ambition, or a taste for adventure, but sometimes I think of it as a curse. Never being fully satisfied with the life I have is very tiresome at times. Always wanting to help people, travel somewhere new, make more money, buy something else small that makes me happy-- it all just exhausts me.
And when I can get away from my life, I pretend that the few days I have to ignore reality will somehow fix every problem I'm faced with. Those few days where everyone wears a smile and gets along, will somehow finish my homework assignments, clear up my daddy issues, and deposit money into my bank account.
The Holiday season is approaching, but all I can think about is how I will do at the Orange and Green Meet...how I will do on my French paper that I haven't started...and how I will ever be able to clear my mind into enjoying the Holiday season.
Maybe, for the next two weeks I should just close my heart into a library book and hide it away on a shelf in the stacks. That way, I can get my work done and train the way I need to without having to stop and worry every three seconds if someone is trying to break into my house, if I paid my credit card bill, or my never-ending medical bill, or if my car has enough gas to get to class tomorrow. And maybe after finals are over, I'll be able to focus on what I actually care about, solving worldly issues and falling more in love with my best friend.
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