Oberlin, OH

I hate explaining myself. God forbid it ever comes to that.

What makes me think that I can possibly say something about myself and have someone else understand it? There are too many degrees of separation between what I am and how I come across to someone else.

It all starts in the primordial muck that is my being. I don’t even know what’s there. I’m trying to peer under the surface for something to express. The too many layers of trying to get something out of me. Once I grasp something, there is something about me reflected in my understanding of words I choose and language that I use. What I’m trying to show or express is already limited, tainted, and distorted by subjective language. Then whoever is hearing what I say is informed by their own understanding of words and language, and interpreted by their own experience. What are the chances that what they hear coming out of my mouth has anything to do with what I am or understanding who I am?

Of course, why this obsession over being understood? What the hell do I care? I know what I know and I know what I feel, and if I can’t articulate it effectively, it’s not my problem.

So why should I even try to explain why at the age of twenty I can decide that what I want to do with the rest of my life is not to live it. There’s too much emphasis on living life, life is just as fun as a spectator sport. Me, I like TV, watching life on TV. Not as much as some, but I accept it as a fact of life.

It’s not about giving up and it’s not about not going on. It’s not even about killing myself, even though that always seems to be there somewhere in the mix. It’s...nothing works and nothing gets any better. The world sucks and people in general suck.

It’s about value of life and how living it doesn’t necessarily do credit to the wonders that it involves and entails. Living shouldn’t be a matter of surviving and not living it shouldn’t be considered giving up. Everything is out of touch and out of synch and nothing makes sense and that’s exactly how it should be. I imagine being inside the shell that’s me and whacking away at the inner lining with a plank of wood. Surviving is different than living, and all I’m doing is surviving. I’d rather watch TV.

So what does it mean for me to be a functional member of society? And why would I want to be one? What value is there in being a functional member of society? Is music enough? Well, I know that I’ve wanted to do it since I was like eight or nine, but . . . it’s not going to happen. And the more it doesn’t happen, the more I don’t care and the more I don’t even want to do it. Now I just don’t even want to do it, I can’t imagine getting any peace or satisfaction from it.

Living under a bridge or becoming a monk is always an option. Nice fallback. I just wish I could disappear from people’s realities without them getting hurt, that would be ideal. If I could I would in a second. But sometimes I think people shouldn’t be a factor. People disappear from other people’s realities all the time and of course someone gets hurt. They die or leave or move on and the people who happen to be there at the time get hurt. Can’t be helped. It’s pretty arbitrary who’s around.

I’m mildly content, I’m not unhappy. I’m not full of bubbles and beans, but that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy, not even venturing to figure out what that means. And I’m certainly not depressed and I wouldn’t do anything rash as a result of being depressed. That would go against whatever principles I have. I don’t know what I intend to do, I haven’t thought anything through concretely.

I do realize that I have to think about the things I’m asking for because I know I’m not accepting a lot as it is. Or maybe I’m asking for something and getting it but my eyes are too closed to realize it. Or I’m asking and expecting much more and disappointing myself. I don’t know what I think. So I wouldn’t worry about it. No, I won’t.