Dude really tho. Hotboxing your car while the Harry Potter original soundtrack suite comes on. I mean wow.
Each of us is very alone. Doesn’t matter how many friends you have to listen to your problems or laugh at your jokes or just exist together, as we all do. Your family. Everyone you love. The person you think you know the best is still a stranger to you. There is no way you could hope of truly knowing who they are inside. Their childhood. Their fears. The dreams they have day and night. What makes their stomach turn or dance with butterflies. The insecurities and regrets and questioned beliefs. The things that go unsaid.
"What goes unsaid says it all," I once read. Mostly just applied it to feelings of love or attraction or longing, but it’s true. We invented language to reach out in the void and grasp one another, to huddle against the cold.
"Sex is the biggest nothing in the world," I once read. From the time we begin to realize that there is a specific classmate we want to be around all the time, that’s what it’s all about. We’re drawn to others. Or maybe I shouldn’t say ‘we.’ There are those who love to be alone, who relish in solitude and bloom on rocky, isolated cliffs. And there are those who surround themselves with beautiful people and still feel completely cut off from every other soul. But we are drawn to others.
Sex is nothing. It’s stupid. It’s fleeting and empty and pulsing and warm and full of tension. It’s like the time I learned that nothing truly touches another thing. Atoms push against one another as hard as they can but never really touch. I don’t even know if that’s fucking true. I don’t care. I’m writing because I can’t sleep, and I’m making associations in my mind to suit my mood. But if that is true, then it’s fitting for human beings to do the same thing. To press harder and harder against one another, straining to connect. Maybe that’s what orgasm is. The cruelly brief moment of contact between two bodies, a false sense of achievement where the brain and body burst with energy and light, thinking you’ve finally done it - you’ve connected. You and this person, or persons.
But you haven’t. It’s just a dream. Like everything else. The categories created by two-legged life forms that scuttle about on the surface of a tiny rock that looks what we call ‘blue’ because of these things called light waves and spectrums. But the categories mean nothing. They cause so much pain in the world. There is so much pain. I don’t think that there is anything but pain.
But I believe that it is the same exact thing as love. And sex. And grass, and music, and air, and color, and laughter, and sleep, and a twisted ankle, and a dog, and food stuck in your teeth, and a brief touch from someone you want to push against and stay there. That’s what Buddhism says. It’s all the same thing. It’s just about how you look at it. You create your world.
But really, you are your world. That’s why you’re alone. No one sees things exactly as you do. The World is countless worlds, one for each of us. When you realize that, it changes. It’s hard to place blame on others when things don’t go your way. Well, it’s not hard. It just makes you feel guilty because you know deep down that it’s on you. But we all do it anyway because the only thing that makes any sense to us, and sometimes it doesn’t at all, is ourselves.
I’m going in circles. I don’t understand myself, not now anyway. “All I know is that I know nothing,” I once read. I think I like that one the best. That’s the line I use when my dad and I yell at one another over the categories ‘Politics’ and ‘Sexism’ and ‘Racism’ and ‘Homophobia’ and ‘War’ and ‘America.’ His line is: “I’ve been alive for over 50 years. How long have you been alive? I know more than you.” That’s actually three lines.
I just want to go far up into the mountains and lie wide open upon the earth. I want to feel the wind and stare at the stars until I cry or reach Enlightenment or whatever the hell I’m supposed to do on this planet. I want to write a journal and drive far out to the middle of nowhere, dig a very deep hole and bury it. Maybe someone will find it one day and wonder who I was. Wonder what I thought about, my fears, my dreams, my loves. More pushing. Maybe linguists will be hired to decipher my cursive. Maybe my thoughts will end up in a museum. Or maybe museums won’t exist anymore. Maybe humanity will have gone. I don’t care. I’m putting my thoughts here, aren’t I? And no one will have read this far. Not unless they cared for me. That’s a warm thought.
Have you ever wanted to die for a day? Just one day. Just to see what it’s like. A friend asked me once if at the moment of my death, would I rather see it coming or go unawares? Of course, the latter, I said. And when I asked her what she wanted, she said, “I want to see it coming. I want my last thoughts to be important. I want to face my death and experience it fully, since it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.” She’s right. I want that, too. It’s scary. But… I don’t know. I don’t want to die from a blow to the back of the head while I think about how much I want Chick-fil-A.
I guess I should stop writing now. If you are reading this sentence, then I’m grateful. It’s nice to know that someone can read my thoughts. Or just skip to the bottom to see how it ends. Whichever you prefer.