Last night I had a vivid dream, of the past and of a possible future, and I awoke lost. I dreamt of my ex, of seeing her again in the future, in my parents house, and talking and having a sexually nuanced moment that faded only to be replaced with another, quite awkward, moment. This was spied upon by my mother from behind the curtains, and then I run away and saw a schoolmate, always a reserved person, but now he was smoking weed, looking unshaven and rough. I asked him "When did you start that?" and he stated "Way back, you did not notice."
I awoke.
Today, my parents asked me to come visit me and feeling like quite a horrible person, I explained to them that I do not know what to do with them when they are around. I do not feel like hanging out with them. We run out of conversations and things to do and say quite fast, and there is this pressure, this pressure to have quality time. You can see it in my mothers eyes, and body language, you can see it in my father's disappointment after our gatherings, and in his hopes when we speak, his hopes that next time we will do such and that and have fun and be happy. I love them but I feel that the time I spend talking on the phone with them corresponds to the time I would have spent with them had I been living in the same town with them. Instead we now have to meet up and have some quality time.
When you feel you have to spend quality time with someone it usually does not happen. We cannot work under stress. Same thing with long distance relationships when you meet up knowing that you will leave again. We felt we had to have sex, and have good sex, we had to be in good mood, and all that for and with a person that over time was becoming a stranger.God Darwinian evolution I loved this woman, at some point. And the funny thing is, for some time, she loved me even more.
And then distance, age, stuff. Nature hates stability. You either evolve together or you stop being together. So, I have been forced now to re-evaluate a hundred little things, a hundred little moments. To come face to face with my hypocrisy. Do I really love someone? Can I do that? Is it more love of the idea of loving? I see B&V, a couple of very close friends here, and I actually see them loving each other. And I fear I might be incapable of that. I confuse sex with love, I confuse friendship with love. I hate it when I sometimes act seductively towards a girl I am not that much into, then spend an eternity thinking about where it would lead us to, then end up doing nothing, or even worse, doing something then ending it, because I see no future. The very notion of a long lasting love and my hope for that, for a permanent best friend whose happiness goes beyond my own and who feels the same way about me, this notion, that was core to my romantic self, seems so brittle, a handhold on which you dare not put your full weight on, for fear of falling.
And with all that I feel quite alone. I hate the series FRIENDS, How I met your mother, Community, and all those comedy shows, staring a group of friends, for making me believe that that group can exist, or even for reminding me of people that prove that it actually can exist. I feel uprooted. I went back to Greece, and hearing my friends making plans for the next week, when I would no longer be there, pierced my heart. I realised I am not going back.
My psy made an interesting comparison between my situation and the way of the nomad. He told me of the nomad, with the caravan, unable to make roots, not always by choice, and arriving at a place, creating bonds, strong bonds with people, creating memories, then leaving. The sadness and the loneliness. The oasis of happiness in between. And most of all the memory, carved in stone, carried around, preciously. For a moment I feel the dry desert wind upon my face, the sand in my beard. I join a fire and share a drink and some food and some stories and songs and a dance and a bed, and then I leave, to come back to reality.
I do a lot of things. I write, for fiction, or for science. I do sports, and cultural events, and films and games and have drinks and seduce women, and talk on hours on no end, yet I feel in transition. And presently, I have no aim in my transition. I think of a permanent lecturer position, after my Thesis, and though I like it, I shudder at the thought. I want more from life than just life. I want an adventure, but even that does not give me a sense of fulfilment. Our lives are undetermined, with no cause or causality to properly speak of, and the duality of my wishes, of emotional stability and of personal adventure seem unreconcilable, at least at the moment.
I seem ungrateful for all the things I have, reader, I know. Appearances can be deceiving. I am not ungrateful, or at least I do not feel that way. But I think I would swap a fair number of these "things I have", for a kind of happiness that lies in my memories, or perhaps in my future. But I fear this projection into the future or the past, because happiness should be now. You cannot live in the past or in the future. We have only one life, and we need to make our choices wisely. To once more quote Fight Club, "This is your life, and it's ending one moment at a time."
So I just write my thoughts away, file them, with no poetry worthy of the name. Just making a fine line in the sands of time.
One day I shall die, one day these words will fade from the magnetic storage disk on which they reside, one day the sun will inflate and eat up our planet, one day there will be no more days.
But for now I will finish my drink and go to sleep.
I wish I were a robot, to dream of electric sheep.
I awoke.
Today, my parents asked me to come visit me and feeling like quite a horrible person, I explained to them that I do not know what to do with them when they are around. I do not feel like hanging out with them. We run out of conversations and things to do and say quite fast, and there is this pressure, this pressure to have quality time. You can see it in my mothers eyes, and body language, you can see it in my father's disappointment after our gatherings, and in his hopes when we speak, his hopes that next time we will do such and that and have fun and be happy. I love them but I feel that the time I spend talking on the phone with them corresponds to the time I would have spent with them had I been living in the same town with them. Instead we now have to meet up and have some quality time.
When you feel you have to spend quality time with someone it usually does not happen. We cannot work under stress. Same thing with long distance relationships when you meet up knowing that you will leave again. We felt we had to have sex, and have good sex, we had to be in good mood, and all that for and with a person that over time was becoming a stranger.
And then distance, age, stuff. Nature hates stability. You either evolve together or you stop being together. So, I have been forced now to re-evaluate a hundred little things, a hundred little moments. To come face to face with my hypocrisy. Do I really love someone? Can I do that? Is it more love of the idea of loving? I see B&V, a couple of very close friends here, and I actually see them loving each other. And I fear I might be incapable of that. I confuse sex with love, I confuse friendship with love. I hate it when I sometimes act seductively towards a girl I am not that much into, then spend an eternity thinking about where it would lead us to, then end up doing nothing, or even worse, doing something then ending it, because I see no future. The very notion of a long lasting love and my hope for that, for a permanent best friend whose happiness goes beyond my own and who feels the same way about me, this notion, that was core to my romantic self, seems so brittle, a handhold on which you dare not put your full weight on, for fear of falling.
And with all that I feel quite alone. I hate the series FRIENDS, How I met your mother, Community, and all those comedy shows, staring a group of friends, for making me believe that that group can exist, or even for reminding me of people that prove that it actually can exist. I feel uprooted. I went back to Greece, and hearing my friends making plans for the next week, when I would no longer be there, pierced my heart. I realised I am not going back.
My psy made an interesting comparison between my situation and the way of the nomad. He told me of the nomad, with the caravan, unable to make roots, not always by choice, and arriving at a place, creating bonds, strong bonds with people, creating memories, then leaving. The sadness and the loneliness. The oasis of happiness in between. And most of all the memory, carved in stone, carried around, preciously. For a moment I feel the dry desert wind upon my face, the sand in my beard. I join a fire and share a drink and some food and some stories and songs and a dance and a bed, and then I leave, to come back to reality.
I do a lot of things. I write, for fiction, or for science. I do sports, and cultural events, and films and games and have drinks and seduce women, and talk on hours on no end, yet I feel in transition. And presently, I have no aim in my transition. I think of a permanent lecturer position, after my Thesis, and though I like it, I shudder at the thought. I want more from life than just life. I want an adventure, but even that does not give me a sense of fulfilment. Our lives are undetermined, with no cause or causality to properly speak of, and the duality of my wishes, of emotional stability and of personal adventure seem unreconcilable, at least at the moment.
I seem ungrateful for all the things I have, reader, I know. Appearances can be deceiving. I am not ungrateful, or at least I do not feel that way. But I think I would swap a fair number of these "things I have", for a kind of happiness that lies in my memories, or perhaps in my future. But I fear this projection into the future or the past, because happiness should be now. You cannot live in the past or in the future. We have only one life, and we need to make our choices wisely. To once more quote Fight Club, "This is your life, and it's ending one moment at a time."
So I just write my thoughts away, file them, with no poetry worthy of the name. Just making a fine line in the sands of time.
One day I shall die, one day these words will fade from the magnetic storage disk on which they reside, one day the sun will inflate and eat up our planet, one day there will be no more days.
But for now I will finish my drink and go to sleep.
I wish I were a robot, to dream of electric sheep.
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