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Dec. 8th, 2003 08:14 pmI'm feeling quite a bit out of touch with my life lately. I'm sure some of it is attributable to the absence of my polaris, but only some of it. It could also be a change in my relationship with words and language as of late, but I think that's more of a symptom than a cause. So, to continue applying wise advice until it stops working, start with what you know:
I feel sad, in an emotional sort of way, as though I'm mourning the loss of much of the life I should have had, could have had and could have at this very moment, had I but chosen to live it, in the past. I may have honed my rhetoric and analytical skills to a keen edge, but if all I ever do is cut myself with them (funny how you never see an after school special about that kind of cutting), really what good is it? I don't do much of use. I know this will sound horribly arrogant, so please forgive me, as it's not intended that way; I may have this intellect, and some measure of skill with it, but what good is it if it's not put to good use?
I feel passionless. I think this is underscored by the tears that well in my eyes every time I sit and manage to capture a tiny shred of what I feel about those I love, all the while feeling that it's largely unintelligible, but thinking that if I have to attach names to words, then I may as well just have written the names themselves, not my experiences, memories, and impressions that I assign names as a matter of convenience. The magic should be in the knowing, or even in the experiencing, and it means something to me, very much, but is this the only way in which I can feel on a regular basis? I'm afraid I might run out of people to sketch before I find something else.
I am incredibly lucky. I know this, and I appreciate it as often as I remember (which is often). I'm a huge, sappy romantic at heart, but it rarely, if ever, makes it out past the baffles and gates in the cynical armor of distance. I don't want to ever appear ungrateful; my life is markedly better now than it has ever been in my life, but I'm selfish and greedy and I want more, and better, without having a clue as to what that means or how to get it.
I go to a job I don't like and am not particularly suited for to continue scrabbling to stay just on this side of retianable. Most of those I work with seem forgettable at best (though I'm willing to acknowledge that I may be seeing only a truncated mock up of their personalities; I have no idea how awful I may appear to them, and am kind of afraid to ask). I have no passion for either the specifics or generalities of my field, though I probably appear quite enthused by technology and processes. This simply won't do for much longer, yet I tremble in fear at the prospect of starting something new, without the benefit of knowing the terrain and the rules. And yet, if I don't choose to leave, and soon, the leavetaking will not be of my choosing, I suspect.
I want to feel, or at least feel alive. I want to be someone I actually like. I want to have a life. Maybe I should write a letter to Santa; I've probably been better than most this year.
I feel sad, in an emotional sort of way, as though I'm mourning the loss of much of the life I should have had, could have had and could have at this very moment, had I but chosen to live it, in the past. I may have honed my rhetoric and analytical skills to a keen edge, but if all I ever do is cut myself with them (funny how you never see an after school special about that kind of cutting), really what good is it? I don't do much of use. I know this will sound horribly arrogant, so please forgive me, as it's not intended that way; I may have this intellect, and some measure of skill with it, but what good is it if it's not put to good use?
I feel passionless. I think this is underscored by the tears that well in my eyes every time I sit and manage to capture a tiny shred of what I feel about those I love, all the while feeling that it's largely unintelligible, but thinking that if I have to attach names to words, then I may as well just have written the names themselves, not my experiences, memories, and impressions that I assign names as a matter of convenience. The magic should be in the knowing, or even in the experiencing, and it means something to me, very much, but is this the only way in which I can feel on a regular basis? I'm afraid I might run out of people to sketch before I find something else.
I am incredibly lucky. I know this, and I appreciate it as often as I remember (which is often). I'm a huge, sappy romantic at heart, but it rarely, if ever, makes it out past the baffles and gates in the cynical armor of distance. I don't want to ever appear ungrateful; my life is markedly better now than it has ever been in my life, but I'm selfish and greedy and I want more, and better, without having a clue as to what that means or how to get it.
I go to a job I don't like and am not particularly suited for to continue scrabbling to stay just on this side of retianable. Most of those I work with seem forgettable at best (though I'm willing to acknowledge that I may be seeing only a truncated mock up of their personalities; I have no idea how awful I may appear to them, and am kind of afraid to ask). I have no passion for either the specifics or generalities of my field, though I probably appear quite enthused by technology and processes. This simply won't do for much longer, yet I tremble in fear at the prospect of starting something new, without the benefit of knowing the terrain and the rules. And yet, if I don't choose to leave, and soon, the leavetaking will not be of my choosing, I suspect.
I want to feel, or at least feel alive. I want to be someone I actually like. I want to have a life. Maybe I should write a letter to Santa; I've probably been better than most this year.
