How I long to fall apart, I am daily plagued with the desire to break up into tiny pieces, dissolve my rational mind into the trees, and grass, and sky, to no longer be I, striving and straining to have my needs met, to make something of myself. Each time I hit some new point in my life that I thought would make it better, it's about two minutes later that I realize nothing has changed. But there's still this faulty concept that one day, one fine day, Ill be well-off, with no worries, and it's so difficult to keep the awareness that this dream, this American Dream, is a lie, it's puffs of smoke, it's mountains of gold, and conformity.
At times I love individuality, the freedom it offers, and the tapestry that is all of our various personalities intermingling and making music...but I'm such an idealist, and often it just seems so futile...I can see Im chasing the wrong dreams, but it seems to be universal, always looking ahead, trying to be better, trying to improve our situation. We spend so much time trying to "make it" that by the time we learn there's nowhere to make it to, we're at death's door, wishing we would've just looked at people, taken a second to GENUINELY connect more often. We sit alone at the top of our imagined mountain, WE MADE IT, but we look around, and there's no one to share it with. We abandoned all of them little by little to realize our empty, vain dreams. Then we think to ourselves where is this gold they promised me, they said it would be here at the top. Frantically, we run around the summit, only to find a few pieces of pyrite, that catch the light just right, sending a sparkle to the boy at the bottom of the hill. He starts climbing...He must make it.
I drive an hour to meet with an advisor, to discuss my future, trying to be optimistic that he'll give me a few bits of wisdom, or at least a little direction. Then as soon as I step in his office and he says two words, I know he doesn't care, he has his own future to plan. I am simply a name in a folder to him, a person who is interrupting the task he was working on, and whom he'd like to get out of his office as quickly and painlessly as possible. I am alone in this world, even when surrounded by people, because no one really knows what I desire, and if I try to tell them, even if they want to hear, they can't. Their mind won't let them, they only see what they would want in my position, and try to advise me on that basis.
I love Walt Whitman's poetry...if you haven't read him check this out, my favorite of his so far
O ME! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the
struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me
The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these, O me,
That you are here-that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
* had a slight epiphany when I first read this*