Today, I thought of something that is, to me at least, very distressing. Walking down the street, especially at school, I hear people talking. I usually respond by asking for a repetition of the previous statement, believing that they are addressing me. They respond with that same look you get from a cow, dull and confused. This, however is no fault of mine; it is in fact a little devise created, I am sure, to cause me the most utmost unease. This device is called a cellular phone.
Now, there is a deeper degree to which these devises can cause me great chagrin, and this is the tiny ear piece/microphone contraption that makes it look as if one is simply listening to the radio. To illustrate my point, I pose a hypothetical situation.
Casually walking back from class, I see a friend with one of these devises,
however, not realizing it is one of the devises, a conversation ensues.
ME: Hey, how's it going?
FRIEND: Pretty good, what's up?
ME: Not much, I just got this paper back.
FRIEND: Oh yeah? How'd that go?
ME: Pretty good, for the most part, but I guess I screwed up one of the 'graphs
(that's journalist talk for paragraph), I think it cost me a letter grade, I'm
going to talk to my TA about it.
FRIEND: That sucks, you think she'll let you do it again?
ME: Probably, she's pretty cool about that stuff, but I'm not sure, it was only
our first paper, so it doesn't get weighted as much
FRIEND: Man, I wish mine were that cool, but you gotta try, your lively hood is
on the line.
ME: That's what I'm screaming, I'm talking to her tomorrow.
FRIEND: Shit, could you hold on a sec?
ME: Okay.
And I stand dumbly ignoring what he says because, well, its not directed at me,
gotta give people their time. Now this seems like a perfectly reasonable
conversation, but let me show you the real one.
JOE: Hey, how's it going?
FRIEND: Pretty good, what's up?
JOE: Not much, I took my girlfriend out last night.
FRIEND: Oh yeah? How'd that go?
JOE: Dude, it was great, I finally go to sleep with her. Only problem is
she was kinda drunk, and I feel like I forced her into it.
FRIEND: That sucks, you think she'll let you do it again?
JOE: I dunno, she wanted to wait, but now that the deed is done, I think the
sweets of my labor may be forthcoming, I talked to her about it, and she didn't
seem to upset, so right now everything's copasetic.
FRIEND: Man, I wish mine were that cool, but you gotta try, your livelihood is
on the line.
JOE: No shit, I figure if I did it right, then there is no chance that she can
deny me
FRIEND: Shit, could you hold on a sec?
JOE: Okay.
FRIEND (to me): Dude, will you shut up, I'm on the phone.
So, it becomes pretty obvious my disdain for the stupid little microphone contraption, sad thing is, I can see this actually happening to me, only time will tell.
Often I write about a pervasive loneliness, a loneliness that I cannot hope to conquer nor ever hope to diminish. Tonight, I had a poetry reading for The Red Herring Poet's Society, and what should have been triumphant and a major step in my life was curtailed by the fact that the only friends who came to hear me were those belonging to the society, and those who were to be my friends as the night ended. Many people said they would come, and I was invigorated, it was a chance for me to prove myself to me, and to those who have been faithful to my site, those who have honored me by reading my poetry and whatever else happens to appear upon this page. I left the esquire and stepped into the empty streets of Champaign, but their desolation did not rival the aching I felt.
I understand that this a tough week for everyone, school is winding down, finals are here, and much time needs to be devoted to studies and essays. I understand that there are many people who would have come, but are too far removed from my home at school to drive down just to drive back. I bear no one any ill will, because I truly understand. It still hurt.
I did have a wonderful time, and the reading went really well. I met some wonderful people, and wonderful people I already knew, proved themselves that much more beautiful. I guess I just would have liked some one to hug after I read the last poem, tears welling in my eyes, as I was filled with the passion and torment of that final stanza. Que sera sera, I should say and, in truth, it is how I feel, but it seems some how lacking and insincere. Perhaps next time I should not allow myself expectations of things that cannot truly be expect.
Another year comes to a close, my heart is heavy, for, I fear what is, and what is to come. I am excited, next year will prove to be both a challenge, and the most enjoyable yet. I cannot wait to start on my new path; I cannot wait to feel my heart fill with the words of others, and I cannot to write my own, and mine own to become even more illustrative of the nature of my soul heart and existence. This year has ended, and thus, anew must one begin, and I hope the next is better than the last.
I thank you, my friend, for showing me the way.
I sang tonight. I sang better than I have ever sung anything in my life. I sang with a strength I hope I can find again. I sang tonight, and I sang for no one but myself. I sang tonight, and nobody was there to hear me. I am selfish in that, I want to share myself, I want everyone to hold a piece of my artistic soul, it gives me pleasure, and to share it with those I hold dear, which is everyone I have ever met and like, makes me feel like maybe I have contributed to their happiness, and to my own.
I sang tonight, and when I left the stage, a sea of empty faces stared back at me - that is the
loneliest feeling I have
ever felt in my life.
It is strange to me, to walk down the streets at night. How empty they are, not a soul wandering, not a car passes - the one that may is lonely, it lingers for a moment, but does not have a soul, it simply exists. In that night in that quiet, I do not feel alone. I feel alone in the faceless crowds, watching others revel in happiness and friendship, watching lovers holding hands, watching the world pass by - watching it simply leave me behind. Those are the moments I also start to understand - it seems however, that I only ever start.
I don't know how we came to be, suddenly, or was it gradual? When did the first person look up to the sky and wonder "why am I here?" Is that where spirituality came from, or is it deeper? Does something move the human soul to believe because there is something for it to believe in? Is there a soul at all, or is this random chance? Do we stand at the apex of our lives wondering what we did wrong, only to fall deeper into the abyss of nonexistence? Was there an existence to begin with? Is science right? Is the church right? Am I right in thinking that I think? Am I right about anything? Did I see a ghost, or was my mind wandering that evening? Can lightning strike in a clear sky? Can dreams portent the future?
I certainly hope all that can be is. All of humanity is correct, and all of humanity is mistaken. We are flawed, and in our flaws, we are perfect; if even one thing that could be isn't - life becomes drudgery.
Oh how sweetly doth the music fill my spirits. As I sing, the pain and suffering leave, and all is happiness, and the world is again bright and peaceful. The anguish disappears into the night, and the day awakens in me.
Oh that I could sing always and ever after, that happiness never leave this body. Oh that all could hear me, and see my soul uplifted in the promise of what is to come on the next page. Oh that all could hear the chords and feel the rapture of a note held perfectly by all who are singing it, that their voices ring above the heavens in a perfect utopian unison.
I would that I knew if I were worthy of what I sing, that I were worthy to let one solitary note escape the confines of my soul, but not to sing, that would be the death of me. Not to sing, I would ne'er find this nirvana, this peace this love of life.
It is music that created the earth; it is in sweet music that the earth continues on ever and always.
What is it in a person that does not allow him to forget? That makes him stand and watch as life passes him by hoping again for the life, for even a part, of the life he had before? Is it fear, is it longing, is it something deeper? Perhaps, it is as he expects: nothing but the simple twisting and turning of the mind in a strange place that he does not know, and does not wish to know.
There he stands amidst the soulful journeys of all the people that surround him, unable to pursue that journey. Can anyone help him on it; does anyone want to? No, he is stuck, trying to find his way, and knowing that the way he wants, he can never have.
Stranger still is this over riding happiness, a breath of life a fervor that fills his mind and clears his soul, the sun rises and he smiles to be basking in the glow of the golden orb. The night sets, and the pale moon shines upon him glistening off of the tears of all that he has done and all that he wishes he could do to change it and get it back again.
So he continues, confused, waiting for something, pursing something. Still nothing finds him; still he finds nothing. Perhaps, perhaps this is his fate. Perhaps he must simply sit and write, and know, one day, everything is going to be all right. Hoping he will actually believe it this time; hoping someone else might tell him this time.
Oh, how the spring does come. The rain pours upon the earth, pouring the hearts of clouds upon me to cleanse all the world of all the troubles of life ceased and life yet to be born. I stand, in the breeze, breathing in the power, and I am rejuvenated. This is my happiness, this is where it all comes from.
Perhaps it is not only happiness in this heart. Yes, something misgives. My mind only thinks of this when the storm rages; when the music plays, and I think, think too much. I do not let it over take me, and it doesn't.
Thoughts, thoughts are spinning through my head. Oh that I knew where to place them, how to form them into something more than what I am, more than what anyone is. That I knew how to make emotions words. That I knew how to make this, writing my life. That I knew that I could.
For now, I shall not bother, for now I shall learn, become what it is to be a writer, an artist, me. To love for the sake of loving - live for the sake of living. Then, then I will be truly happy.
And I shall try to post more, make music take me on the journey of my body, mind, and soul.
There comes a point in life where one questions. For me, life is a question. Every aspect is something to be pondered, to be understood, to look at and simply wonder; why? It is, I think, the plight of any person who lives in this land of constant thought. I do not know if it is the sign of a writer, perhaps it is more the sign of a spiritual or perhaps even a scientist. But every moment is a question, a chance to spelunk further into the cavernous depths of my mind, if that is what you can really call it.
I don't know that I am anything but a person; anything more than a combination of matter that, for no reason other than chemistry, can perform certain tasks, and ultimately change its surroundings. In that, I don't even know if what I write is anything more than proteins being made in the nuclei of my billions of cells. In that, I wonder, why should I be the one to have these thoughts, why did random chance choose me? Is this the work of the One, or is the One simply a figment of humanities collective imagination.
Then, why, do I even bother? I guess, I exist for the sake of existing, so that in my mind, some day, I can look back and say I may not have been anything but matter, but I made a difference; even if that difference was to move a stone. Somehow, I have left a mark. I guess, that is all any of us really want, to move a stone, and say, "look, I made a difference,"
Many years ago, I learned many things. I learned about life, I learned about love, I learned that in all the world only a few very inconsequential things, are really the things that matter. This I suppose is one of them.
This is one of those things that matter, at least to me. I write with the flame that burns my soul; it extends through my pen to char the page that holds the letters. It is not words, it is emotion, feeling, understanding, the fleeting thoughts of a mind hoping one day to be whole. It is me standing at the edge of some mighty cliff looking for the answers, knowing that if I jump too soon, or if I jump too late, I will fall, but if I time my leap perfectly, I shall fly like so many have flown before me. I long to fly, I long for that freedom, and even that longing makes me more free than most ordinary men.
It will be said again, but I say it here, so it is understood, and always marked, for as time may change, this entry shall not. I dedicate this page, the writing, the very essence of my soul in word form, to my very best friend and soul-mate. I need not say her name, she knows who she is, and those who know me even remotely know who she is as well. My friend, who I love with all my being, my life would not be possible without her. She is the morning star, guiding me through a twilight of confusion, if not for her, I would be lost, or gone.
I love her, she will always have a place in my heart, and I will always do all that I can, to ensure her happiness. She may not be in love with me anymore, but I do not need that. If even once she looks at me, smiles, and says, "I love you, my friend," then this world is some how brighter. and I can live in the comfort of knowing that I will always have a home to come home to. In love, there is not always friendship, but in friendship, love is always present, and I thank her with all my heart for being my friend, for needing me, as I need her.