Fall is an interesting word.
It is the season where leaves die, slowly, dangling onto a dying branch with all the power a plant could muster, only to be blown to the ground by the wind, indifferently. The leaves are struggling, constantly repeating the same cycle over and over again. They grow to their hearts content throughout the spring and the summer, and then once they reach the top of their hills, they die and fall, in the fall. Like a boulder (or like a G6), they fall, gracefully, to the ground, where they could accompany their families of dead leaves. Are the leaves happy? Some would say yes, and I would disagree with those who say yes.
The leaves devolve into one state. If the universe was kind to them, then they could stay their dry, crisp selves for a little while. Then, the moisture would settle in, transfiguring the leaves to a heap of sewage waste. Those leaves look a bit like seaweed to me. But not the dried boxes that you can purchase at Costco. I mean organic seaweed, plucked straight out of the ocean, still slimy, screaming to be plunged back into its habitat, but then savagely thrown onto the dry beach, where it would slowly dry, and die, but not before experiencing the haunting rays of the sun scorching its whale-underbelly of an exterior to a crackling crisp.
Fall also defines words referencing decline or losing control.
Freshman fall was my second worst semester.
I don’t like happy people when I am not happy.
Sophomore fall was my worst semester.
I don’t like happy people even more when I am sad.
Junior fall was my best semester.
I felt loved. It was a good feeling, while it lasted.
I wonder where senior fall comes in?
I am not very optimistic. I have never been very optimistic. Such is the conception of the world that has been given to me by my life experiences. I have fallen from grace. From grace. What is grace? Was I ever graced from the start?
‘s apple. I like apples. Just kidding. I don’t like apples. I have always been more of a pear type of guy. Or a watermelon type of a guy. I really like watermelons.
‘s apple. I don’t like apples. Just kidding. Eve doesn’t have an apple. Did they ever specify which fruit she ate from the Tree of Knowledge? Was it an apple? Do apples come from Knowledge Trees? No. Apples come from apple trees. I learned that in Kindergarten. From the Giving Tree. Was the Giving Tree an apple tree? I don’t remember if Silverstein ever specified if the giving tree was an apple tree. Why do people assume that all trees are apple trees? There are more trees than just apple trees. What’s with everyone’s obsession with apples? Since when did apples become symbolic of all fruits? That is some A1 marketing right there. I’m honestly impressed. Whoever invented this apple campaign that affects me even though I am unaware of its origins, kudos to you.
Wanting, but never wanted. Is that the summary of my life?
I am still as unaccomplished as I am last year, and the year before, and the year before. I am still as uninteresting as I am last year, and the year before, and the year before. Am I happier? No, not really. But I also have less of a desire to be happy at all. Or is that just an example of sublimation? I am certainly not more honest with myself that I was a year ago, or was I? I am definitely more confused. I am confused; that is a certainty. Certainty?
There are so many thoughts that come and go. I want to be a cloud.
My friends will move on. It is inevitable that my friends will move on. Although there is a semblance of proximity bind us together still, they will eventually go on to live more fulfilling lives, leaving me to stay warm only in the dim coals of the past. I have accepted this as the way of the world.
So it goes. So it goes. So it goes. #So #it #fucking #goes.
There seems to be so little consistency in life. Friends come, friends go. And, especially given a change in environment, friends really come and go. The only source of consistency that exists in my life is myself… what a scary prospect. Life is a zero-sum game of individual experiences. There is the life that you live, and sometimes, there is the life that you share. But, at the end of the day, it is always the life that you live that prevails over the life that you share. Life lived is life lived by yourself. Solitude is the resting state of existence. Any familiarity in the universe eventually devolves into nothingness. This is the way of the world.
I am okay (right?) with spending time with myself. But who actually enjoys spending time with themselves? I ask because I cannot understand how anybody could actually like themselves. It would imply that it would be possible at all to like yourself. And, since I do not like myself, that puts my legitimacy as a moral individual into question. That would challenge so many assumptions that I have about myself that I would no longer be able to continue living without questions. I don’t like asking questions. Is this where my sidewalk ends? Sidewalk, in this case, refers to honesty. It’s not a very good symbol, if I’m being sidewalk.
I am a stranger to the world. I am a stranger to myself.
The void, summarized:
2010 was a great year for music. Too bad I didn’t listen to music then. Easy come, easy go. Grenade.
I had my eyes open during my first kiss. That was a weird time. That was so weird. Why were my eyes open? That is so fucking weird. God, I’m not going to think about it.
#easy #come #easy #go
It seems that there is only one certainty in life: careers. Love comes as a close second, but most love does not last. But, for someone like me who has squandered most of my chances to become successful in whatever field I end up wandering to, I wonder where the certainty would be for me. It is not surprise that my friends are more successful than me; they know what they want to do better than me, and they are able to work towards their ambitions better than me. All I do is wander. And, as of now, it seems that I lived in confined enough of a space to still wander. But, what is the appeal of wandering in the open world, where everyone has walked away in their own paths?
This is the dread I face. The prospect of not being. I simultaneously fear and yearn to be a wanderer throughout my life. It is for this reason that I really like clouds. But I also don’t like clouds. I like clouds because it is my ideal. I also dislike clouds precisely because it is my ideal. It wanders. Clouds. Wander. Quite a bit, really. I remember once, when I was making a trip to the H&M at Times Square during my lunch break last week, I looked up, and I saw so many clouds moving about. They were wandering, so quickly, letting the wind drift them into whatever space it chooses. It was a moment when I questioned whether it was the clouds moving or the ground moving. They, the clouds, were moving… so quickly.
And that seems to be the state of my life now. I am still wandering, but the pace of change far exceeds what it used to be. The world is changing so quickly around me. I have so little time to wander without regard. I am working now. My friends have less time for me than they had before. They are more busy, more tired, more engaged with their work than they are with me. There is a part of me that is truly happy that they found something that brings them joy. I wish I could say the same about my own work, but I also understand that work is an acquired taste in some professions. Manipulating Excel spreadsheets can only go so far to make me happy.
I need to do my laundry.