Saturday, November 16, 2002
@ the dorm room | 10:28 PM
All human relationships are conflict.
In the time it takes to smoke a cigarette on the second floor landing of the fire escape behind Premont Hall, my residence hall, an airliner can make its way, from my perspective, from I-35 to its final approach at Austin-Bergstrom International (“international?” What? One flight to Mexico makes it international?) Airport. I can only ascertain that it’s on its final approach, you see, by its height in the air. From over I-35, one of the two main north-south arteries in town, it slowly glides toward the horizon until it’s over, in my estimation, Southeast Austin and ABIA. This makes no difference, of course, and it isn’t surprising that a plane should move that far in six and a half minutes . . . but, I thought I’d mention it.
Sometimes the skyline lights sparkle at night. Sometimes.
I wrote the following just before philosophy started yesterday morning:
They say that if you truly love someone you must let them go, make them free.
But which is more noble: An acknowledged lover that tells his beloved that he’s setting her free or the unrecognized lover who, unbeknownst to the beloved, sets her free?
Back to today:
I thought about the above a bit more today. [I’ve been drinking.] In my case, saying that I’m setting my beloved free is probably simply an attempt to couch my actions in altruistic terms rather than acknowledge my own selfish intent: That of pulling out before I get hurt. Nipping it in the bud, if you will.
There comes a time when you want something so much that it becomes an impossibility. One must realize this. It’s a peculiar feeling: Knowing that just because you want something so badly it isn’t going to come true. How do you convince yourself that this isn’t a rationalization of some sort? Or just a delusion? I can’t answer that. Especially not when dealing with the irrational facet of human emotion and attraction and the like.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll be surprised and none of this will mean a thing.
I turned twenty-two on Monday.
In the end, maybe none of this matters. I think that’s what I’m fighting. I’m fighting the defeatist attitude taken by many of those around me here, those who’ve never had to do a thing for themselves in the past. “How can what I do change anything?” It’s easy to say that. It’s easy to sing Sodastream: “I’m done with everything.” It’s keeping that hope alive that’s hard.
If I just make myself vulnerable one more time (and the time after this and the time after that), it will all pay off. If I’m gracious and nice and work hard, I will receive what I’ve earned. If I can live through this dark moment, everlasting happiness lies just over the bend.
At times, especially after drinking, it’s harder to convince myself that what I do matters. So I influence someone to read a good book, listen to a new band, look at art, visit a new city . . . do I change them? Do I change them so much that they change me? Probably not.
What I do want? you ask. The whole, not the parts. Me, not what I like (to steal an idea from Nick Hornsby).
I think I have more to say.