Fade

Well, the mad rush of moving out of the dorms is finally over, and I have officially relocated from the prison cells of Max Palevsky to a refugee camp located in the same area. When you read the novels and watch the movies, there are always scenes of nostalgia and moments of reflection at the end of things. In a trashy novel, today would have been a day of tears and smiles as friends part and leave each other for the summer. The truth is that I am so glad to be out of that place, and far from being pensive and introspective, I have been so obsessed with packing and carrying heavy boxes that there hasn't been sleep for days on end now.

Now that things have slowed down, I finally have time to type a little something at the end of the academic year. I could try to sum up my first year of college in a foreign land, speculate on what the summer and the years beyond hold, reflect on the friendships formed and the changes wrought in my life and myself. I could, but you know I won't be as banal as that, right? Actually, I think I'll have to disappoint you this time around.

Before I started college, I was in the army, dreaming of freedom from the uniform. I swore never to wear green voluntarily ever again, to never pull on a pair of boots again, to never sleep through the days, refusing to work for no reason other than a refusal to work. Well, I broke every one of those vows. In the army, I thought school would be a delight, a chance to exercise my mind once more, to free it from its cobwebbed and debilitated state. I was wrong. School may be demanding on the mind, but I don't feel as if I have stretched any this year. I have been working well within my capabilities, the only time I exert my brain is when I try to avoid work while obtaining a decent return on my grades. It's pretty sad when you think about it. So why am I so resistant to applying myself? I thought a 3 year break from work would prompt me to muster some enthusiasm for it. A change seemed so welcome when I was so trapped in a rut in the army. Looks like I'm still in that rut. Ah well, there are worse things in life.

In terms of personal growth, I don't think I have achieved very much of it. In fact, I may have regressed somewhat. After reactivation of my mind, the refusal to strain myself in the course of schoolwork has left me with a great deal of spare brainpower. This in turn has forced me to expend it on the consideration of myself and the circumstances in which I find myself. The impossibility of accepting myself has settled in, and I find that I am so dissatisfied with myself that depression threatens not infrequently. When you find yourself boring, what remedy is there in the world that can resolve that gnawing sensation of melancholy? Friends, some claim, but that is flawed beyond all comprehension. Friends cannot give you a sense of the self that is different from what you create on your own. If you find yourself boring, what can anyone tell you that will alter your perception of yourself as such? Nothing.

When I came to the conclusion that I was boring, I was, quite frankly, stunned. Many people find me interesting, for I apparently have a great deal of personality and beliefs that tend to be different from the norm. But in the hours of nothingness that occupied my life for nine months, I have come to realise that there is nothing underneath the artificial construct I have weaved into my armour against the world. The fat kid with awkward social skills becomes the aloof kid who doesn't have a fat kid complex, has interests that are interesting and a bit quirky, has great force of personality. False, all of it. I do not think I am anything of the sort. It seems impossible for me to find an honest self. Maybe that is because I cannot even come to terms with what would constitute the truth of myself. Perhaps the personality I have created is the true me. Perhaps not. I am perfectly honest about all aspects of that construct, which gives people the impression that I am terribly blunt and direct. Ridiculous.

I find that I miss aspects of myself that were in evidence when I was much younger. I have been missing so much in life; every moment of my life has been designed to fulfil my expectations of myself. It is only now that the fatigue sets in, and the strain of holding myself together about myself is proving to be somewhat much. I yearn for childhood, for adolescence, for the halcyon days of youth I somehow missed on my road in life. Maturity is overrated. To never do the insensible and stupid thing is to miss the point of life, of experience. So I find have no experience in life at all. I imagined a world, creating it about myself, looking at it before I encounter it, analysing it beyond belief as I carefully slip through it. I feel like a dancer who weaves about the steps, always holding himself apart from the music even as he keeps in tune with it, never quite grasping and grappling with it. The classic criticism of musicians is a lack of soul, a detachment from the music itself. I feel detached from my life. I am not living it, but touching it lightly, letting my fingers trail through the material as it slips by me. So I crave immaturity; I crave illogic; I crave silliness.

So it was when I encountered a person who seemed to embody all this. Someone who is both younger than me and acted it. So painful to view her initially, so jarring to my sense of myself. I detested her then, wondering how anybody could be so unlike myself. A million others have passed before my eyes and provoked similar reactions. But as the antipathy for myself grew, the sympathy for this person so antithetical to myself grew as well. So I made a friend. Eventually I discovered the depths ran deeper than would initially appear to be the case. I think I shall leave it at that.

The only thing that lingers as I hurtle toward the end of this little adventure is disappointment in the failure to fulfil any high expectations I held. No, that's not true. I don't think I really had any major expectations for school. I may think I did, but I didn't, really. When I stood in the airport, the trepidation and excitement was so evident that you could practically crush it in your hand. I didn't feel it. I was so blase I surprised myself. Was my cynicism that harsh? Ah, what am I worth then, if I cannot become excited over even the greatest change in my life for a while?

The light dims about me, the lake holds the slightest tinge of pink, and my fingers tire of the strain of typing. I return home in 2 days, and I wonder if I am excited about that. The answer eludes me as does my failing sight in the fading light. Time to rest, and I will not, but I shall try, as I do every night.