XCII

Humbled 

So, I've hit a wall. I've gone without writing for a while and, apparently, It's done me no good. 

I started out questioning existence, our journeys, interactions. I seemed so wise. Yet, lately I've come to a grand and startling conclusion:

I know nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. 

Less than nothing.

So, does it any good to even ask for help? For no amount of cheesy quotes and personal testimonies seem to be alleviating this funk. I don't know what I need, nor what I want out of life. I simply exist. Humbled, I guess, by the fact that, for now, maybe just existing is good enough. 

XCI

Last Week, My Friend Died.

I used to be on a highly competitive swim team; I don't believe I have ever told you that. In my past experiences on the swim team, I came in contact with a girl named Rachel, who was a few years younger than I. She was nice but spoiled, well-meaning but annoying, as most rich, suburban, private school kids are. There were times at which I hated her. After all, meeting under the context of competition breeds some anger and resentment towards others. 

But she died too young, killed by a drunk driver in a nasty car accident. I didn't make it to the honorary service that was held at her Christian private school, I missed the visitation, and I missed the funeral.

You see, we had been out of touch for a few years. But none of that matters, for death either reconciles people or it pushes them further away. Death causes me to forget the years we were not in contact; I still view her as my old middle school friend that pushed me to swim faster. And I still cried multiple times over the news of her death. Death reconciles people throughout time and space, for in it we all have a brief moment when we come to terms with our own mortality. For a moment, we are all alike. In this death, we are reconciled.

And so this is the best eulogy I could write for an upcoming high school senior who died too young. All I have left to say is that I do hope there is an afterlife, and I hope Rachel finds it to be well.

XC

Why Judge

"Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint."

Though this quote is completely cheesy, I happen to love it, for it makes me think. We have have our own way to kill our sadness, so why judge other people for that? 

LXXXIX

Courage 

"Courage, dear heart"
-C.S. Lewis

Courage. We must call ourselves to courage. In the face of heartache, we must learn to be firm and strong. 
I must learn to be strong.
C.S. Lewis also wrote that to love anything is to be vulnerable. And it's better to be vulnerable and heartbroken then cold and selfish, isn't it? At least that's what I tell myself. 

LXXXVIII

But I don't. 

"So, this is my life. I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that can be."
-Charlie, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Maybe I'm writing this to find solace because Lord knows I need it. It's getting bad again, and I'm not sure how to deal with life. You'd think, as a young adult, I would have at least have some part of my life figured out. But I don't. Not one single part makes sense. Which reminds me, I got coffee with my friend Jake the other day, and he says nothing happens for a reason; it's all just chaos. And I'm not sure if I agree with him or not.

LXXXVII

Bottle of Xanax

Heart pounding. Hands shaking. Racing thoughts.

Anxiety.

Twist off top. Bottle of Xanax. I swallow.

Calm.

But am I still the same person if my emotions are gone?

LXXXVI

A Place Where I Belong 

The soft squeal of creamy milk foaming, the buzz of brewing espresso, the soft humming of terrible indie music playing, the intermittent shouting of various names -- this is my soundtrack. Coffee shops have become my lifeline. 

Skipping class in classic college style, I find myself back at the same spot in the same coffee shop. Some days feeling good. Others, feeling like shit. Yet, always returning here. What can I say? I guess I'm just a creature of habit. But I find that maybe there's more to it. Why do I return here? Because I don't always enjoy exchanging $5 for a mediocre cup of coffee. 

I believe we never lose a grasp on our security blankets. As a young child, we get weaned off our blankies just to cling to something else. Maybe I'm just forming this into my habits because I seek solace. I crave comfort -- a place where I belong. But is that not what we all try to find along our earthy journeys?