impromptu writing: on not being spiritually bankrupt
I thought that when I returned to home, new york, I would be so invigorated with carefree joy; not depressed, drained, and unhappy with the world. I felt gutted-- I was consumed by myself and my awful incurable loneliness (which, in retrospect, I could've changed that by calling someone, but I just wanted to wallow). I didn't have anything at that point to do all summer and I dreaded having to wake up every morning just to try to fill my day with adventure. It was far too much effort. It could've been boredom, my inability to find an suitable outlet for ambition -- or a dip in hormones and then, I am completely incapacitated by something so uncontrollable.
I reevaluated how I live to survive it. I am happier not because I see the people that less fortunate than I am (poverty, war, etc.), but because I am impressed by those who live for the sake of living in constant happiness. Alot of people work towards an intangible nirvana that will happen far off in the future-- the hopes of "true love" or "striking it rich," putting it off-- maybe after they graduate with a degree and get a good job? Maybe next year? In three years? In ten? Maybe because I am tired of people constantly doubting themselves and the intentions of other people. I am tired of thinking that what I am doing is not good enough, or that everyone is out to hurt me. I see cynicism and sarcasm in people when they are being sincere. On the other hand, I am tired of people acting selfishly and saying bitter, hurtful things to masturbate their insecurities. I am tired of people and their fucking sado-masochism. They love to hurt anyone close and especially loooooves to dwell on their sorrow, struggle with life, whatever. That was all about me by the way (and maybe, by coincidence, some of you), and I need to get out of that shit.
The most beautiful thing about love though, that I realized two weeks ago, was that it's far less complicated than anyone believes. True love, I once thought, was a great explosion of biblical happiness, never having to face emotional poverty or feel frustration at a special person. Love was a pure reckless abandon of sexual passion, albeit a safe, fluffy kind of lust; and true love is nothing without death-defying obstacles in which lovers traverse rings of white fire on rusty tricycles; the thrill of a Barnum & Bailey and soft-core pornography. It was also the bittersweet love of absence. The more intensely you missed the person while they were gone, the more closer you reach the standard of true love that noone had really set. But who am I, or anyone, to pass judgment about the perfection of another when we are all so equally flawed? I've been asked several times, "Are you in love?" as the notion seems a recurring interrogative requisite to every new relationship, but then, recently, it inspired the constipated thoughts that battled outwards from my brain and gave sloppy birth to this paragraph. Everyone is wrong, and true love is just like "the imaginary carrot hanging over the family dining table" analogy as immortalized by Chuck Palahniuk, and noone wants to talk about it but dude, yes, that guy was butt-fucking a root vegetable. No, love is not complicated. It doesn't involve second-guessing everyone, aka "I want to play a little game," aka cut the S&M foreplay bullshit. It's not ecstasy, or a hallucinogen, except that it does have somewhat of a tragic property of making the person you're in love with seem like godlike Adonis, while your friends might strongly oppose and believe they bear closer resemblance to a short, muddy farmboy. Love is being happy with hanging out with a person a lot of days, and I am not cheapening by taking away all that explosive orgasms that you're suppose to have everytime they touch you and the supernatural electricity dancing between fingertips, but the preoccupation with an unnatural perfection is wasting time and preventing anyone from just living for the sake of happiness.
I reevaluated how I live to survive it. I am happier not because I see the people that less fortunate than I am (poverty, war, etc.), but because I am impressed by those who live for the sake of living in constant happiness. Alot of people work towards an intangible nirvana that will happen far off in the future-- the hopes of "true love" or "striking it rich," putting it off-- maybe after they graduate with a degree and get a good job? Maybe next year? In three years? In ten? Maybe because I am tired of people constantly doubting themselves and the intentions of other people. I am tired of thinking that what I am doing is not good enough, or that everyone is out to hurt me. I see cynicism and sarcasm in people when they are being sincere. On the other hand, I am tired of people acting selfishly and saying bitter, hurtful things to masturbate their insecurities. I am tired of people and their fucking sado-masochism. They love to hurt anyone close and especially loooooves to dwell on their sorrow, struggle with life, whatever. That was all about me by the way (and maybe, by coincidence, some of you), and I need to get out of that shit.
The most beautiful thing about love though, that I realized two weeks ago, was that it's far less complicated than anyone believes. True love, I once thought, was a great explosion of biblical happiness, never having to face emotional poverty or feel frustration at a special person. Love was a pure reckless abandon of sexual passion, albeit a safe, fluffy kind of lust; and true love is nothing without death-defying obstacles in which lovers traverse rings of white fire on rusty tricycles; the thrill of a Barnum & Bailey and soft-core pornography. It was also the bittersweet love of absence. The more intensely you missed the person while they were gone, the more closer you reach the standard of true love that noone had really set. But who am I, or anyone, to pass judgment about the perfection of another when we are all so equally flawed? I've been asked several times, "Are you in love?" as the notion seems a recurring interrogative requisite to every new relationship, but then, recently, it inspired the constipated thoughts that battled outwards from my brain and gave sloppy birth to this paragraph. Everyone is wrong, and true love is just like "the imaginary carrot hanging over the family dining table" analogy as immortalized by Chuck Palahniuk, and noone wants to talk about it but dude, yes, that guy was butt-fucking a root vegetable. No, love is not complicated. It doesn't involve second-guessing everyone, aka "I want to play a little game," aka cut the S&M foreplay bullshit. It's not ecstasy, or a hallucinogen, except that it does have somewhat of a tragic property of making the person you're in love with seem like godlike Adonis, while your friends might strongly oppose and believe they bear closer resemblance to a short, muddy farmboy. Love is being happy with hanging out with a person a lot of days, and I am not cheapening by taking away all that explosive orgasms that you're suppose to have everytime they touch you and the supernatural electricity dancing between fingertips, but the preoccupation with an unnatural perfection is wasting time and preventing anyone from just living for the sake of happiness.