The tragedy is not that we are alone, but that we cannot be. At times I would give anything in the world to no longer be connected by anything to this universe of men.
— Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959
I feel as if every single person I meet takes something away from me. They take a part of me, bit by bit, every waking moment of every day. I go home and I’m alone. It’s night and I’m awake. I’m alone and aching, aching for the parts that people take, the ones I give, the ones I don’t give, the parts stolen and missing. I look at my photographs and I’m disgusted because I’m slowly leaving my own body, my own self. I no longer am myself. I am the parts I lack.
I will never be that person that you want me to be at the time you need it the most.
The thought physically sickens me. The knot in my gut tightens. This divorce, this divide is almost unbearable– I face the irrational and the inexplicable and it pulls the heart from my body, and my soul cowers at the back of my throat. We push and we scream and there is only silence. There is the void and all we can do is move blindly, our palms glued to our eyes and our eyes adjusts to the blinding darkness. I am groping for the line. I am searching for the pattern. We are all searching for the secret.
I feel myself being dragged down. There is no exit. I have nothing else to do but to laugh, ironically. I laugh because we are tasked to find the pattern but there is none. There is none because we can never know. It is humanly nonexistent. I laugh.
I’m starting to have trouble connecting with people.
I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, honestly. It’s very disconcerting because I’ve always /sort of/ identified myself as an extrovert (at least to some extent), so I’ve never actually had any major problems with “socializing” per se. I actually sometimes enjoy the small talk with random people, but nowadays I just kind of… shut down. I don’t know what changed in me– maybe it’s just the perfunctory awkward freshman phase or just a self-preservation thing because of the major changes in my life. With college and 2013 shit, basically.
I feel as if I’m tethered to a kite that is slowly flying farther away from reality and genuine connections. I used to pride myself in having the flexibility to be able to talk to all sorts of people, but now, everything just seems so dishonest or forced. It’s like I stopped believing in making new friends because I got so used to the same people for more than a decade. I might be too young to be this disillusioned but I’m just… so sick of having to deal with fake things, fake people. Having a shitload of acquaintances or strangers as Facebook friends. I can’t have ‘friendships’ that revolve around meaningless jokes or awkward, superficial small talk– I have too many of that already.I crave real, human connection. I long for conversation– not just exchanges on twitter, an online chatbox or text talks. I want to be able to have coffee with an actual human being without the veil of virtual reality. I want to eat dinner with someone who has the decency to turn off their phone for an hour at least. I want to know people, truly, their stances on issues, their ruminations and experiences, their questions in life. I want dynamism. I want to be uncomfortable, I want to be conflicted. At this point I would take anything over a teasing one-liner or worse, a damn Facebook group for a gossip clique that is the modern day friendship.
They say the people you are meant to meet will gravitate towards you in one way or another. You’ll know your friends when you meet them. But I think there’s more to it– I’ve also forgotten how to nurture a friendship. Maybe I’m having such a hard time because I’m looking at it wrong. Or maybe I’m searching too hard, or too far, or searching for the wrong things. There must be something wrong with me if the last time I had a ‘friend crush’ (a strong urge to be friends with someone) was months ago. I don’t know how to make friends and I’m stuck in between wanting everything and expecting nothing. It sucks. It sucks to see naturally likeable people instantly connecting with others and you know you want that for yourself too.
There’s so much more to this, I think. I’ve gotten used to a shit kind of laziness that it bleeds to my current friendships. I see myself blending into the past, or blurred at the edges. Sometimes when you have something you forget that it can leave you at any time. You wake up one day and it’s gone without a trace. I’ve gotten used to getting things instantly, and now I’m trying to slow it down but then I see everybody else racing away as I attempt to chase after lost things. It’s selfish, I guess. I often forget that friendship is not one person– it is compromise, it is selflessness. I have yet to master this.
I have no excuse for myself. I’m probably the shittiest friend in the world but I think I subconsciously feel entitled to the best of people. Once again, pride leaves me safe in a cocoon but more alone than ever. This is pure fear. Fear of inadequacy, fear of missing out, fear of opportunities and fear of denying opportunities, fear of forgetting, fear of being forgotten, fear of boredom, fear of challenge, fear of meaning, fear of meaninglessness.This dualism leaves me undone. I am at a crossroad and I choose all and none. I have no one to blame but myself. But I try. My God, do I try.
There is no escape. You can’t be a vagabond and an artist and still be a solid citizen, a wholesome, upstanding man. You want to get drunk, so you have to accept the hangover. You say yes to the sunlight and pure fantasies, so you have to say yes to the filth and the nausea. Everything is within you, gold and mud, happiness and pain, the laughter of childhood and the apprehension of death. Say yes to everything, shirk nothing. Don’t try to lie to yourself. You are not a solid citizen. You are not a Greek. You are not harmonious, or the master of yourself. You are a bird in the storm. Let it storm! Let it drive you! How much have you lied! A thousand times, even in your poems and books, you have played the harmonious man, the wise man, the happy, the enlightened man. In the same way, men attacking in war have played heroes, while their bowels twitched. My God, what a poor ape, what a fencer in the mirror man is— particularly the artist— particularly myself!
— Herman Hesse
There is such loneliness in that gold.
The moon of the nights is not the moon
Whom the first Adam saw. The long centuries
Of human vigil have filled her
With ancient lament. Look at her. She is your mirror.
Jorge Luis Borges, The Moon (for María Kodama)
i am dealing with your virtuality
by believing in your potentiality.