I operate inside the grand delusion that this life, or my existence, specifically, should be entirely pleasing and possess elements of romance. And yes, naturally, my reality hopelessly falls short. I refuse to respond to this kindly. Since I was a child, I grew up with the great misfortune (or burden) of imagination, and my hope to stretch this infiniteness beyond it’s own ethereal capacity was the beginning of my revolt. If you know me now, I still very much look (and often speak) like a child. I adore, and revel in the great ideas about freedom. Within the confines of my own circumstance and culture, I am my own hedonist, my liberator! I would take it upon myself to loosen the grip and set myself free! After a century’s worth of work and study, my head had stayed down for so long I’d forgotten what shape the clouds took.
So at my first release I moved to California. California was my supreme pie in the sky. I wanted all of it, at once. It was the Pacific mostly, the way it smelled. I wanted everything to do with the authentic Mexican food made from the hands of people’s mothers, the kinds with tired faces that would make me a plate like my own mother would. I wanted sand to intrude on everything. It wasn’t noble, but in the film of my mind, it was entirely sad and courageous, what a lovely thing to blaze and rip through the pages of your youngest years with all the laughter and fury (and terrified tears) you could collect. Lord knows I wouldn’t remember the monotony of routine work and paralyzed, disappointed weekends in between. If imaginary numbers in digital accounts are bloating somewhere, does that mean you are too?
I hesitate to rehash everything that happened to me in those spectacular, and heartbreaking few months? years? because it is something of a private beauty, left only to be revisited in the quiets of my minds and in no other space. I was profoundly changed. Casting all my greatest virtues aside to discover myself, and really, never being more satisfied in it all. I tried to stay, but I couldn’t. You don’t always get your way, you know? And what a beautiful, sour fate it is. The only way to know “your way” is not to get it, and I believe that, honest-to-God.
Let’s return to that sentiment. Most everything is temporary. But in my insatiable pursuit of truth, I have learned this: in order to place a value on something, you must- absolutely, you must leave it. It’s a horrible ethos to carry around, and let me tell you, it is a troubled one. I’m not saying it’s right. But it is what I do. Unless I look at the ocean, and know there is a chance, it is my last visit, it will be an occasion! There will be a parade! I will bring friends and salute to the waves and eat her sands. I will look at her like I’ve never seen her before and she will be fierce. When I leave my friends, they are electrified versions of themselves. Every last word is something sweet, and kind words are always exchanged. I leave them, entirely in love with them. I would marry them all. If this had been a run-of-the-mill Wednesday, I wouldn’t pay their words any mind, I’d enjoy their company, but no more or less than I had the previous day. I would feel nothing. When I leave the boy, Lord, I forgot all of his blemish and I daydream about how stunning of a man he was, (a real beautiful one), and all harsh words are OK now, because it was over, and while it was something- I melted inside the decadence of youth.
You see, I have terrible trouble with time. I think about it always. I’m 23, almost 24. 24, 24, 24, 24. I count it again and again, then I match it with my top ten greatest moments in life, and a grocery list of achievements, collection of friends, times I had an original thought (to date: zero), seasons of cold, seasons of hot, my favorite foods, the last nice thing I said to my brother. Especially, I think about all the great books I will never write because I spend my days absolutely frozen in anxiety. Frozen. I’ve become exceptionally nomadic, and geographically untraceable- but yes, frozen. Too afraid to sit down with any one thing, because the whole world is going on and I must see it all! I reduce everything to boredom or futility (must you spend all day on your computer?) Yet I am endlessly frustrated with my lack of apparent success with any one thing. I’m always moving for fear that I will miss it all, but in essence, I am effectively missing it already.
As you await the great crescendo to descend into a moral of my story, of sorts, know this. What all of my travels taught me about love and purpose? I’ve conquered the world onmy first few tries, and that’s good enough for me.
I leave you with a theory that we both could’ve gathered from all of this, is that grasping onto the tail-end of your youth can be a dangerous game, played best with equally troubled boys without a care for their own looming manhood. I approve of travel with intention- go, and look for something. Upon return, prepare for the heartache to end all heartaches. Then repeat.
