Current Song: "Little Victories" - Matt Nathanson
After a week of disappointments of varying magnitude, some tragic and some just lame, today is radiating a kind of promise I haven't felt in awhile.
And it really is about the simple pleasures. About a 65 degree day when you actually have time to go running outside. About the sweet and unnecessary email from a friend. About the concert tickets that just happened to go on sale the moment you discovered them. About the perfect cup of coffee.
Is it completely unromantic to believe that life really is about the day to day joys? Moments. Not dreams, not journeys. Just moments. Is that simply an impatient perspective?
I'm content to live a life of truly fantastic moments. And if, once in a rare while, they string together to make one really great day, that's just magic.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
"The War of Art": An Anticipatory Book Review
I recently began reading Steven Pressfield's "The War of Art", a self proclaimed "examination of the internal obstacles to success". The book aims to identify that inner demon that allows us to, time and again, abandon our own goals in spite of our creative inclinations. Simply put, it is a lengthy embellishment on age-old cliche "Resistance is futile."
As a rule of thumb, I generally don't read books that:
a) Have titles that play on titles of actually literary masterpieces (in this case, 'The Art of War', a military treatise written by SunTzu centuries ago. Yes, I did wikipedia the author, but yes, I was already well aware of this work. Let it be noted that I call this book a 'masterpiece' on the sole basis of reputation; as I find my time much better spent watching Sex and the City than reading military treatises.)
While vaguely clever, the title 'The War of Art' is most likely an attention-grabbing ploy to catch the eye of anyone who has 'The Art of War' buried in their subconscious. And if you paid any attention in high school history class, you probably do.
b) Could possibly be categorized in the self-help section of your local Barnes and Noble. The entire notion of 'self-help' books capitalizes on the very human condition that Pressfield demonizes: Resistance. His fundamental argument (as far as I can tell at this point, as he repeats it nearly every other sentence in the first ten pages of the book), is that we as humans have the passion and imagination to be incredible, visionary self-starters, but that when it actually comes to the grunt work of pursuing our dreams, we make up excuses to postpone them indefinitely.
I don't disagree with this. It's a pretty accurate and, if you'll forgive me, obvious assessment of human nature and particularly of American society, where we're constantly in search of the next best thing.
But did Mr. Pressfield ever consider that reading a book about how to overcome resistance and more efficiently pursue our dreams is, in fact, another form of resistance?
Though I have only recently started the book, thus far it promises to be a 170-page guilt trip for those who suffer the incurable condition of resistance--who never follow through with lofty plans, exercise regimens, entrepreneurial endeavors, artistic ambition.
Is Pressfield's examination of this condition in some people accurate? Sure. But I can't help but think that in a species that has yielded such individuals as Beethoven, the Beatles, daVinci, Steve Jobs, Mother Theresa, and Barack Obama, to name a few, 'resistance' is not quite the epidemic he proclaims it to be.
I will finish the book and see if my opinion changes. But the first few chapters had me too worked up to not begin the discussion.
And I can't help but think that, a mere 4 pounds away from a 38 pound weight loss goal I set for myself 9 months ago, or with a rapid progression on a musical instrument I have always wanted to play, or with each step I take toward being a happy, healthy, and independent young woman, I am not the likely culprit he had in mind.
Some goals were meant to be achieved, some were meant to be reassessed and altered, and some were meant to yield fantastic failure and provide your friends with some good blackmail years down the line. I'd be willing to argue that the true triumph here is the ability to distinguish among them.
As a rule of thumb, I generally don't read books that:
a) Have titles that play on titles of actually literary masterpieces (in this case, 'The Art of War', a military treatise written by SunTzu centuries ago. Yes, I did wikipedia the author, but yes, I was already well aware of this work. Let it be noted that I call this book a 'masterpiece' on the sole basis of reputation; as I find my time much better spent watching Sex and the City than reading military treatises.)
While vaguely clever, the title 'The War of Art' is most likely an attention-grabbing ploy to catch the eye of anyone who has 'The Art of War' buried in their subconscious. And if you paid any attention in high school history class, you probably do.
b) Could possibly be categorized in the self-help section of your local Barnes and Noble. The entire notion of 'self-help' books capitalizes on the very human condition that Pressfield demonizes: Resistance. His fundamental argument (as far as I can tell at this point, as he repeats it nearly every other sentence in the first ten pages of the book), is that we as humans have the passion and imagination to be incredible, visionary self-starters, but that when it actually comes to the grunt work of pursuing our dreams, we make up excuses to postpone them indefinitely.
I don't disagree with this. It's a pretty accurate and, if you'll forgive me, obvious assessment of human nature and particularly of American society, where we're constantly in search of the next best thing.
But did Mr. Pressfield ever consider that reading a book about how to overcome resistance and more efficiently pursue our dreams is, in fact, another form of resistance?
Though I have only recently started the book, thus far it promises to be a 170-page guilt trip for those who suffer the incurable condition of resistance--who never follow through with lofty plans, exercise regimens, entrepreneurial endeavors, artistic ambition.
Is Pressfield's examination of this condition in some people accurate? Sure. But I can't help but think that in a species that has yielded such individuals as Beethoven, the Beatles, daVinci, Steve Jobs, Mother Theresa, and Barack Obama, to name a few, 'resistance' is not quite the epidemic he proclaims it to be.
I will finish the book and see if my opinion changes. But the first few chapters had me too worked up to not begin the discussion.
And I can't help but think that, a mere 4 pounds away from a 38 pound weight loss goal I set for myself 9 months ago, or with a rapid progression on a musical instrument I have always wanted to play, or with each step I take toward being a happy, healthy, and independent young woman, I am not the likely culprit he had in mind.
Some goals were meant to be achieved, some were meant to be reassessed and altered, and some were meant to yield fantastic failure and provide your friends with some good blackmail years down the line. I'd be willing to argue that the true triumph here is the ability to distinguish among them.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I feel so much spring...
There is an open call tomorrow that I have vowed to myself I will go to on sheer principle. The stipulation being (because when is there not a stipulation with me?) that I will go no earlier than 8AM, and if I don't get seen, so be it.
I am attending said open call for two reasons. One being that, though I have no desire to do summer stock, I have little else going on this summer yet. Thus, any pursuit of summer employment is a valid one.
The second, and more legitimate excuse, is that I have a voice teacher who believes in me with every fiber of her being and wants to see me perform professionally. And until I come up with a valid alternative (e.g. an internship, other non-performing job), I will continue to pursue these opportunities for no other reason than a respect for her...
Okay, I realize that seems a bit convoluted. But, practical person that I am, I really can't break the "I don't want to do musical theatre for a living" news to my creative mentor until I can back this decision up with a tangible alternative.
I believe that she will continue to teach me as long I should choose to study. Which, at this point, is indefinitely, as I believe in preserving one's instrument, and singing for singing's sake. But I will admit that breaking the news to her that I may not, indeed, be bound for a life as a musical theatre is by far the hardest part of that decision.
One step at a time. Spring is upon us, money (albeit a modest amount) is coming in. My friends and family are healthy and, all things considered, happy. In spite of recent tragedies, I am filled with a sense of gratitude and promise. And I choose to embrace it as fully as I can.
P.S. Major shout out to KJ, this blog's only admitted devotee. Thank you for supporting my torrid love affair with the English language.
I am attending said open call for two reasons. One being that, though I have no desire to do summer stock, I have little else going on this summer yet. Thus, any pursuit of summer employment is a valid one.
The second, and more legitimate excuse, is that I have a voice teacher who believes in me with every fiber of her being and wants to see me perform professionally. And until I come up with a valid alternative (e.g. an internship, other non-performing job), I will continue to pursue these opportunities for no other reason than a respect for her...
Okay, I realize that seems a bit convoluted. But, practical person that I am, I really can't break the "I don't want to do musical theatre for a living" news to my creative mentor until I can back this decision up with a tangible alternative.
I believe that she will continue to teach me as long I should choose to study. Which, at this point, is indefinitely, as I believe in preserving one's instrument, and singing for singing's sake. But I will admit that breaking the news to her that I may not, indeed, be bound for a life as a musical theatre is by far the hardest part of that decision.
One step at a time. Spring is upon us, money (albeit a modest amount) is coming in. My friends and family are healthy and, all things considered, happy. In spite of recent tragedies, I am filled with a sense of gratitude and promise. And I choose to embrace it as fully as I can.
P.S. Major shout out to KJ, this blog's only admitted devotee. Thank you for supporting my torrid love affair with the English language.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Why?
It's the single greatest unanswered question of human existence.
Intelligent creatures that we are, we need reasons to accept things. We need reasons to understand.
So when a complete freak accident cuts short the life of a brilliant, beautiful, compassionate and kind 22 year-old, it's the question we keep coming back to.
The hard part is, we can fill in every detail, solve every part of the mystery, and still not have our answer.
And we can choose to be angry, because it is such an irrational, unfair, ridiculous tragedy.
And we can choose to take it as a reminder of how lucky we are to be taking the very breath we are taking at the very moment we are taking it.
And we can choose to take it as an excuse to reach out and reconnect with the people we love.
And we do all of these things, to an extent. None of which answer the eternal question.
This is the kind of soul-numbing tragedy to which words and actions can do no justice.
This is something about which I will ask "Why?" for the rest of my time on this earth.
And it is moments like this that we all have to cling to some sense of something greater than what we know. And in that greater thing, whatever or whoever it may be, lies the answer. It has to.
Intelligent creatures that we are, we need reasons to accept things. We need reasons to understand.
So when a complete freak accident cuts short the life of a brilliant, beautiful, compassionate and kind 22 year-old, it's the question we keep coming back to.
The hard part is, we can fill in every detail, solve every part of the mystery, and still not have our answer.
And we can choose to be angry, because it is such an irrational, unfair, ridiculous tragedy.
And we can choose to take it as a reminder of how lucky we are to be taking the very breath we are taking at the very moment we are taking it.
And we can choose to take it as an excuse to reach out and reconnect with the people we love.
And we do all of these things, to an extent. None of which answer the eternal question.
This is the kind of soul-numbing tragedy to which words and actions can do no justice.
This is something about which I will ask "Why?" for the rest of my time on this earth.
And it is moments like this that we all have to cling to some sense of something greater than what we know. And in that greater thing, whatever or whoever it may be, lies the answer. It has to.
WHAT THE LIVING DO
by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
R.I.P. Natasha Richardson
Every time a public figure dies, I do everything within my power to ensure that my feelings on the matter are genuine before jumping on the grief bandwagon. I do, a lot of the time, feel like the human race thrives on tragedy in small doses (kind of like a flu shot?) as it serves as a necessary reminder that as long as we are alive and healthy, we should really just stop complaining.
That said, Natasha Richardson's death has caused me to shed real tears, in the privacy of my own home, not for show. Having been blessed with the opportunity to see her in a Roundabout benefit reading of "A Little Night Music" in mid-January, her talent and grace are particularly fresh in my mind. And I can, technically, say that I saw her final Broadway performance.
A performance that moved me enough to make special note of it, EVEN among the work of fellow stage-gods Victor Garber, Stephen Pasquale, Vanessa Redgrave. But as I said to my parents the next morning, who had so kindly passed the hot tickets on to my friends and me, Natasha Richardson's portrayal of Desiree Armfeldt "made me feel as if I was hearing 'Send in the Clowns' for the first time." And to anyone who has even a fragment of knowledge about musical theatre, this is the highest kind of praise.
Aside from awakening us to the fragility of the human body, the unpredictability of life, the sheer lack of logic in the workings of fate...this tragedy also calls to attention the smallness of not only the theatre community, but the Manhattan community. The idea that Ms. Richardson's family is grieving a mere 18 blocks from where I write this makes the whole thing seem even more disconcertingly real.
The point is not to dwell or be melodramatic. The point is to take a necessary pause and give this event the attention it deserves. And so I ask her to rest in peace, and to sing and sing and sing for all eternity.
That said, Natasha Richardson's death has caused me to shed real tears, in the privacy of my own home, not for show. Having been blessed with the opportunity to see her in a Roundabout benefit reading of "A Little Night Music" in mid-January, her talent and grace are particularly fresh in my mind. And I can, technically, say that I saw her final Broadway performance.
A performance that moved me enough to make special note of it, EVEN among the work of fellow stage-gods Victor Garber, Stephen Pasquale, Vanessa Redgrave. But as I said to my parents the next morning, who had so kindly passed the hot tickets on to my friends and me, Natasha Richardson's portrayal of Desiree Armfeldt "made me feel as if I was hearing 'Send in the Clowns' for the first time." And to anyone who has even a fragment of knowledge about musical theatre, this is the highest kind of praise.
Aside from awakening us to the fragility of the human body, the unpredictability of life, the sheer lack of logic in the workings of fate...this tragedy also calls to attention the smallness of not only the theatre community, but the Manhattan community. The idea that Ms. Richardson's family is grieving a mere 18 blocks from where I write this makes the whole thing seem even more disconcertingly real.
The point is not to dwell or be melodramatic. The point is to take a necessary pause and give this event the attention it deserves. And so I ask her to rest in peace, and to sing and sing and sing for all eternity.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Fact.
I have to say, every time I pick up a guitar, it becomes clearer.
I am a musician.
It's one of the only things that really makes sense to me.
I am a musician.
It's one of the only things that really makes sense to me.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Top of the mornin' to ya!
I have seen the face of God, and it is the weather today in NYC.
Which, of course, is juxtaposed with the fact that my 10 miles of running this past weekend seem to have rendered me completely immobile. A lingering case of plantar fasciitis has reared its ugly head in my right instep, and my calves are in that kind of searing pain that can only be relieved momentarily assuming the runners stretch at inopportune moments.
I really don't think I did anyting wrong. I am not an inexperienced runner. I think the forumla for distaster was:
Running outside, for the first time in a long time, on an uneven surface
+
Running 30% farther than I intended to
+
Insisting on repeating this the next day, in spite of the pain I was in.
I'd be lying if I said that I'm not slightly masochistic when it comes to physical fitness. But to me, there are few things more rewarding (or potentially damaging) than competing with oneself.
Anyway, the most frustrating part is that I can't go running on this glorious, beautiful, the-world-must-be-made-of-cotton-candy kind of day.
On top of that, it's ST PATRICK'S DAY! And for those of you who know me, you know that I "My Dad is a McKennery, my Mom is a Maloney, and my grandmother is a Flaherty", because I proudly proclaim it whenever I encounter another Irish person. So even though I don't have any celebratory plans of note, here's a general Erin Go Braugh to all you fellow meat and potato lovin' drunks out there.
Which, of course, is juxtaposed with the fact that my 10 miles of running this past weekend seem to have rendered me completely immobile. A lingering case of plantar fasciitis has reared its ugly head in my right instep, and my calves are in that kind of searing pain that can only be relieved momentarily assuming the runners stretch at inopportune moments.
I really don't think I did anyting wrong. I am not an inexperienced runner. I think the forumla for distaster was:
Running outside, for the first time in a long time, on an uneven surface
+
Running 30% farther than I intended to
+
Insisting on repeating this the next day, in spite of the pain I was in.
I'd be lying if I said that I'm not slightly masochistic when it comes to physical fitness. But to me, there are few things more rewarding (or potentially damaging) than competing with oneself.
Anyway, the most frustrating part is that I can't go running on this glorious, beautiful, the-world-must-be-made-of-cotton-candy kind of day.
On top of that, it's ST PATRICK'S DAY! And for those of you who know me, you know that I "My Dad is a McKennery, my Mom is a Maloney, and my grandmother is a Flaherty", because I proudly proclaim it whenever I encounter another Irish person. So even though I don't have any celebratory plans of note, here's a general Erin Go Braugh to all you fellow meat and potato lovin' drunks out there.
Monday, March 16, 2009
She comes and goes and comes and goes like no one can.
It seems that as soon as I get to making some kind of committed decision about my life, the proverbial pendulum swings suddenly and violently in the complete opposite direction, imploring me to do something, anything else.
If I take this audition, and I get it, will it uproot me from my life?
If I take this job, and I get it, will I ever be able to audition again?
Would I rather be in New York, living a stable life in my favorite place in the world...
Or pursuing something I'm not sure I love anymore, touring in places I don't love, for fear of having otherwise 'given up'?
It seems that I have a paralyzing fear of moving forward.
It seems that I am just as terrified of finding happiness as I am of the complete opposite.
And for lack of any emotional direction, and any logical understanding, I have to force myself unwillingly to commit. To something. Whatever it is. The next thing.
For the past year I have completely abandoned my belief in fate and put my entire life into my own hands. I need to allow myself to believe in destiny, just a little bit. I don't think my life is entirely out of my control, but I can't bear the thought that everything lies in my hands. Can anyone?
I want so badly to do something relevant, without having to compromise who I am.
This has incontrovertibly been the most difficult year of my life to date.
If I take this audition, and I get it, will it uproot me from my life?
If I take this job, and I get it, will I ever be able to audition again?
Would I rather be in New York, living a stable life in my favorite place in the world...
Or pursuing something I'm not sure I love anymore, touring in places I don't love, for fear of having otherwise 'given up'?
It seems that I have a paralyzing fear of moving forward.
It seems that I am just as terrified of finding happiness as I am of the complete opposite.
And for lack of any emotional direction, and any logical understanding, I have to force myself unwillingly to commit. To something. Whatever it is. The next thing.
For the past year I have completely abandoned my belief in fate and put my entire life into my own hands. I need to allow myself to believe in destiny, just a little bit. I don't think my life is entirely out of my control, but I can't bear the thought that everything lies in my hands. Can anyone?
I want so badly to do something relevant, without having to compromise who I am.
This has incontrovertibly been the most difficult year of my life to date.
Writing is what was missing. This time, anyway.
I'm back! I'm back. And I am resisting deleting yet another blog and starting "fresh" (a notion that is highly overrated and if you ask me, completely non-genuine, as it is impossible to erase those things which have contributed to who we are, how we think, and what we do).
I just came across a lot of things I had written in the last several years--just general musings as I waited in O'Hare or sat awake on a school night with a jarring need to understand myself. The following is one example. I give it to you, and with it a promise that this blog will attempt to be nothing if not sincere, spontaneous, and an absolutely necessary outlet in preserving the sanity of yours truly.
A Moment of Clarity
13 October 2007
When I think about the person I was a mere three years ago as I timidly made the greatest transition of my life unto that point—that is, from high school to college—of course I am shocked and amazed by the ways I have grown. I have conquered things socially, physically, emotionally, and mentally which would have sent my high school self running in the opposite direction. But there is something about college that forces you to be your own rock—to know yourself wholly and unashamedly, and to triumph over even your deepest fears and insecurities. There is no hiding from yourself in these years; this has been perhaps a harder learning experience for me than for those friends who were more self-assured in their high school years.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that upon entering the final year of the supposed ‘best four years of my life’, my sarcastic and sometimes cynical point of view on my college experience is met with increasing disapproval. As general sentimentality heightens among those around me, my own personal frustrations become more logically and eloquently defined. I feel like my friends take it as a personal affront when I comment on the reality of what this experience, at least for me, has been. There is no arguing the fact that some of the single most precious memories of my twenty-one years have been spent in this city, on or around this campus, with these people. I wouldn’t try to deny that fact for a second, and if you think me ungrateful, I am not being clear.
That said, my time at Northwestern has served as a rude awakening in many ways. An awakening of the responsibility that comes with independence, of each and every single one of my complex but not unusual insecurities, of the difference between good friendship and bad, of the genuine possibility and feeling of loneliness. Upon applying to this school I deemed it a ‘perfect fit’ due to its theatre program, proximity to a big city, academic integrity, and so on. In hindsight I recognize the inherent irony in the fact that there will always be something about me that just doesn’t quick click with this place, and vice versa.
More than anything I’ve learned that there is nothing wrong with that. My youthful idealism has evolved into a much more genuine—yet not unromantic—understanding and appreciation of those things which are good. I realize nothing is perfect. Nothing. I realize that misery is real, and comes in sometimes intolerable droves, but eventually—inevitably—gives way to an ever clearer, heightened state of content.
Tonight, one of my best friends said in reference to the utter perfection that is college, ‘Everyone you love is within a one mile radius.’ It’s a beautiful sentiment, and I only wish that I could perceive my world here in the same way. There are people here I would die for. But there are also people, places, and things all over the world that are pulling me from here so fast that I feel like I’m already gone.
The last thing I would ever want is for the people who have made this experience worthwhile to think that I take them for granted. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. But the romantic in me is far from convinced that this is the best life has in store for me. So maybe the idealist hasn’t gone away at all.
I just came across a lot of things I had written in the last several years--just general musings as I waited in O'Hare or sat awake on a school night with a jarring need to understand myself. The following is one example. I give it to you, and with it a promise that this blog will attempt to be nothing if not sincere, spontaneous, and an absolutely necessary outlet in preserving the sanity of yours truly.
A Moment of Clarity
13 October 2007
When I think about the person I was a mere three years ago as I timidly made the greatest transition of my life unto that point—that is, from high school to college—of course I am shocked and amazed by the ways I have grown. I have conquered things socially, physically, emotionally, and mentally which would have sent my high school self running in the opposite direction. But there is something about college that forces you to be your own rock—to know yourself wholly and unashamedly, and to triumph over even your deepest fears and insecurities. There is no hiding from yourself in these years; this has been perhaps a harder learning experience for me than for those friends who were more self-assured in their high school years.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that upon entering the final year of the supposed ‘best four years of my life’, my sarcastic and sometimes cynical point of view on my college experience is met with increasing disapproval. As general sentimentality heightens among those around me, my own personal frustrations become more logically and eloquently defined. I feel like my friends take it as a personal affront when I comment on the reality of what this experience, at least for me, has been. There is no arguing the fact that some of the single most precious memories of my twenty-one years have been spent in this city, on or around this campus, with these people. I wouldn’t try to deny that fact for a second, and if you think me ungrateful, I am not being clear.
That said, my time at Northwestern has served as a rude awakening in many ways. An awakening of the responsibility that comes with independence, of each and every single one of my complex but not unusual insecurities, of the difference between good friendship and bad, of the genuine possibility and feeling of loneliness. Upon applying to this school I deemed it a ‘perfect fit’ due to its theatre program, proximity to a big city, academic integrity, and so on. In hindsight I recognize the inherent irony in the fact that there will always be something about me that just doesn’t quick click with this place, and vice versa.
More than anything I’ve learned that there is nothing wrong with that. My youthful idealism has evolved into a much more genuine—yet not unromantic—understanding and appreciation of those things which are good. I realize nothing is perfect. Nothing. I realize that misery is real, and comes in sometimes intolerable droves, but eventually—inevitably—gives way to an ever clearer, heightened state of content.
Tonight, one of my best friends said in reference to the utter perfection that is college, ‘Everyone you love is within a one mile radius.’ It’s a beautiful sentiment, and I only wish that I could perceive my world here in the same way. There are people here I would die for. But there are also people, places, and things all over the world that are pulling me from here so fast that I feel like I’m already gone.
The last thing I would ever want is for the people who have made this experience worthwhile to think that I take them for granted. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. But the romantic in me is far from convinced that this is the best life has in store for me. So maybe the idealist hasn’t gone away at all.
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