Going Back To the Block.
Taking out the prolix introduction and leaving in its stead the terse, barren middle section, bequeaths an immense lack of content not softened by any excess of words. Simply, I have issues, conflicts, dialectical struggles with vacation. Despite untacitly requesting it for numerous weeks past, I now realize why I leave places with an unmistakable sense of leaden sentiment. Probably I need to note, for pragmatic reasons, that no life exists outside of responsibilities, social contracts, disappointments, unfulfilled ideals, obligations, or discomfort. But I never fail to take things way too hard, to see it all too feelingly as Gloucester said. Once I noticed the bizarre dislocation from life I feel while in college, it all started to make a little more sense, the origins began to reveal a little more lineage. While in school I live a quite shrewd life of class, reading, papers, reading, limited social interaction and phone calls. World events take on an irrelevant look; other people, for the most part, move like the girl sung about in Why Won't You Stay. Distance grows and expands between me and the present and me and the future. I know that life exists out there apart from my own little one except it has no ability to imprint its importance upon me. It makes me want to make silly statements about the absurdity of living, of how man-made, arbitrary, and transient everything is, to assert my equal unimportance on a macro and micro level and to envision how remote my life is from anything where actual, supposed real life centered on family and work goes on with Circadian certainty. Narrow seems the best way to describe it. Narrow in the sense that it retains an intense focus on only a few specified activities and bodies of information for a truly small period of time, yet, through condensation and economy, it has a semblance of lengthy duration. In all its wonderful delusion, any encroachment on my behavior from an outside source becomes overwhelming and liable to produce a variety of unfounded reactions by myself. Speaking of it now, it looks all very consuming as far as things to fill up my time with goes. However, the things that I fill my time up with never lose their meta- qualities. Always I know how futile and useless in so many ways they are. Luckily I tell myself that no matter what activities I partake in, no meaning will offer itself, that that kind of thing, that precious, necessary entity synonymous with purpose does not exist as a natural fact. Indeed, my unilogue goes, people have to create it for themselves or get so enmeshed into an ideology that everything appears natural in a very powerfully convincing manner. Still working on that. When that work gets interrupted, though, e.g. by vacation, the freedom that Sartre spoke of comes slowly, unceasingly towards me until it envelops the effectively structured environment I usually have with oblivion and opportunity. Sadly, my time becomes one big waste of latency for I go forth with the sense that I can only accomplish things in a limited way--I can do everything, but with numerous qualifications. Additionally, I end up losing time with myself and substituting too many activities that over-incite an already introverted ascending reticular activating system. Really, how has a week passed by already? I mean I suppose I have done a little: a couple essays I wanted to read, I've read and I've gotten in some good time with people. How I define accomplishment and what I expect to accomplish really determines the resulting opinion I end up with. Well, let me adjust that: the way time goes so quickly without needing to be filled with activities that provide an illusory sense of slowness occurs with much more frequency during vacation, and it ends up draining my patience. More than anything, what I need in order to feel satisfied, to lose my hunger for nothing, is for time to slow itself down for me, to languish and abide until I slosh through stagnation into the next phase of activity that I find myself in. Since that never really happens, on the contrary, I frequently stand in a purgatorial-like state between wanting to do something and not wanting to. Confusion sets in nicely when I think about what I should do in life. Boy, do I not care (that much (usually)) about having an illustrious career, about having fame, about doing anything to be remembered by future generations of cognitive bipeds--I only need a job for survival, to satisfy my economic needs. Actually, I lie, don't believe me. Making declaratory statements about myself generally makes me uncomfortable, so I will refrain from making them, for the most part. What I initially meant to point to was the ways in which vacation underscores how little I ever do. For various reasons, my interests in life cannot be enumerated at length. Seeing that brings me quickly into a Lacanian/Hegelian mirror stage where I develop a sense of self in relation to others. Through comparison I turn to desire as lack and decide that I would lose most competitions for effectiveness, for secular accomplishment in spite of not knowing how much it will be worth. Many people do things, enjoy things, get things done, move along without qualms and idiotic uncertainties, whereas my activities begin and end with empty theoretical wonderings prompted by an infinite sense of failure and dissatisfaction enacted through a process of reading that helps only in adding to that feeling. As a result, I also begin to wonder what life or consciousness consists of for most people. And I notice, perhaps wrongly, that it is made up of a small amount of general, broad, fluid, filled categories. Mandatory activities (school, work, other survival behaviors), leisure activities (hobbies, etc.) and social activities (friends, more than friends, less than friends, interpersonal encounters), along with other possible fields, encompass much of existence for most people--in various configurations--to provide an appearance of uniqueness. Going from there, I understand that pleasure results in differing gradations for each category and individual activity to make life something enjoyable, something worthy of passing on to a random chemical combination to experience on this spinning, populated rock. Basically, I don't know much, except that I hate it when people begin sentences with basically. If I could, I would write a love song addressed to a personification of depression and belt out in naive, young, genuine angst.