Walk of Life
Again, if you know the reference in the title, let me know. They're always relevant.
This week has been incredibly strange. Most things that have happened have been bittersweet (although usually more sweet than bitter). I discovered at my advising appointment that I can't be a math major on top of a computer systems engineering major, but I can minor in math and computer science. My favorite class was cancelled because we had these personal conference things (mine was Thursday afternoon) during which we were supposed to talk about the next essay, but we spent most of the time talking about art and politics (the former was more of a difference in opinions on the validity of art as an occupation of otherwise important space). That class isn't great; it's the teacher. She's the only one who thinks I'm a good writer, so I'm going to hold on to that. On top of that experience, Rach came west to visit me! I was so excited I couldn't concentrate for two days. Math class was torturously slow; I couldn't even use calculus to distract myself. She drove a total of five hours to see me for four. Quite simply, I'm amazed that anyone would commit that sort of time. I'm still so excited that I don't mind that my roommate is puking his guts out next to me. I'm in such a good mood that I'm not going to castrate the bastard I just heard puking in the bathroom. It's incredible what happened. It's like a PCP shot of joy that'll last me for who knows how long.
I wonder what does that to me. I mean, I've never really felt that before. Maybe it's just because I've never called any place but my family's house home before. Or maybe it's because I still think home is home, and I just miss it. I'm not sure. That's not it, though: seeing Rach brought up the strangest feelings I've felt since... an undisclosed event a while ago. Strange doesn't describe it; I think wonderful is more accurate. Yeah. I miss her significantly already, and for some reason I'm getting dizzy sitting here in my chair at what must be a strange angle or something, even though missing her doesn't counteract in the least this joy I'm experiencing. That's it: joy. It must be that. No human has done that for me before. No single event or encounter has caused that.
I write now because emotion overwhelms me. If I stop writing, it'll continue. I went for a walk tonight at about two in the morning, and it was strange as hell. I was trying to find the people on my floor because I was desperate for a distraction. Matt said they went out to "see the stars" (including the quotes, which were implied by tone, but not DICTION, Furlong, it was never DICTION that did it), and I went to the water tower thing, because that's my favorite place to be on campus. That orchard field thing is nice. Some day I want to just lie there with a friend—someone really close, I mean—and talk about things and experience the surroundings of that incredible thing. I also looked for apples when I couldn't find my floormates because the noise we made before by smashing the closer water tower into the apples was so cool. It was almost peaceful, except someone set off the fire alarm in a nearby building, and drunk and crazy people were exiting and then ditching the building for other places, so I kept my safety in my hand instead of its resting place, since I've always wanted to need to use it.
Why does writing organize your thoughts? I'm curious to know, because I just wrote, and I can think clearly now. If someone took away my power to express myself to myself, I'd be helpless. I depend on it almost as much as sight and sound and reading. I'm going to finish Ender's Game today (Saturday)! I have to, otherwise I'll be too far behind my English Writing teacher/professor. This book is amazing, but not as amazing as the four hours I had today with my favorite person in the world. I hope that doesn't sound sketchy. I wish it was reciprocated, but I made the decision to be universally mediocre a while ago, and there's no turning back from a decision (involuntary or not) to not excel in anything. The only thing I'm really, really good at is sucking at everything. It's not a very useful skill, except maybe to serve as a scapegoat for other people's depression and such things. If I can make them happy at my expense, at least I'm making them happy. I don't have the capability to do it any other way.
Re-reading that, I'll probably wonder why the hell I was being so emo and weird and trying to imitate a toolshed. I can always save myself with a quote from a song:
My thoughts are organized, but the joy still overwhelms me. I'm going to get out of my chair and find a vent, because it's too much goodness to be contained. My happiness is the equivalent of the harmonic series, if you know what I mean. If you don't, just wait for some basic calculus.
I'm praying for someone because I think they need it. Why? It helps? Who does it help, exactly? Why pray when I could be doing other things? Eternal questions; I'm at a loss for eternal answers, but even then, I should know myself. How do I find myself? Zen has always appeared to be the wrong path. It has too many flaws. We're going to have to find another way. Time to call upon Leroy Jenkins. Merry Christmas to all, and goodnight!
This week has been incredibly strange. Most things that have happened have been bittersweet (although usually more sweet than bitter). I discovered at my advising appointment that I can't be a math major on top of a computer systems engineering major, but I can minor in math and computer science. My favorite class was cancelled because we had these personal conference things (mine was Thursday afternoon) during which we were supposed to talk about the next essay, but we spent most of the time talking about art and politics (the former was more of a difference in opinions on the validity of art as an occupation of otherwise important space). That class isn't great; it's the teacher. She's the only one who thinks I'm a good writer, so I'm going to hold on to that. On top of that experience, Rach came west to visit me! I was so excited I couldn't concentrate for two days. Math class was torturously slow; I couldn't even use calculus to distract myself. She drove a total of five hours to see me for four. Quite simply, I'm amazed that anyone would commit that sort of time. I'm still so excited that I don't mind that my roommate is puking his guts out next to me. I'm in such a good mood that I'm not going to castrate the bastard I just heard puking in the bathroom. It's incredible what happened. It's like a PCP shot of joy that'll last me for who knows how long.
I wonder what does that to me. I mean, I've never really felt that before. Maybe it's just because I've never called any place but my family's house home before. Or maybe it's because I still think home is home, and I just miss it. I'm not sure. That's not it, though: seeing Rach brought up the strangest feelings I've felt since... an undisclosed event a while ago. Strange doesn't describe it; I think wonderful is more accurate. Yeah. I miss her significantly already, and for some reason I'm getting dizzy sitting here in my chair at what must be a strange angle or something, even though missing her doesn't counteract in the least this joy I'm experiencing. That's it: joy. It must be that. No human has done that for me before. No single event or encounter has caused that.
I write now because emotion overwhelms me. If I stop writing, it'll continue. I went for a walk tonight at about two in the morning, and it was strange as hell. I was trying to find the people on my floor because I was desperate for a distraction. Matt said they went out to "see the stars" (including the quotes, which were implied by tone, but not DICTION, Furlong, it was never DICTION that did it), and I went to the water tower thing, because that's my favorite place to be on campus. That orchard field thing is nice. Some day I want to just lie there with a friend—someone really close, I mean—and talk about things and experience the surroundings of that incredible thing. I also looked for apples when I couldn't find my floormates because the noise we made before by smashing the closer water tower into the apples was so cool. It was almost peaceful, except someone set off the fire alarm in a nearby building, and drunk and crazy people were exiting and then ditching the building for other places, so I kept my safety in my hand instead of its resting place, since I've always wanted to need to use it.
Why does writing organize your thoughts? I'm curious to know, because I just wrote, and I can think clearly now. If someone took away my power to express myself to myself, I'd be helpless. I depend on it almost as much as sight and sound and reading. I'm going to finish Ender's Game today (Saturday)! I have to, otherwise I'll be too far behind my English Writing teacher/professor. This book is amazing, but not as amazing as the four hours I had today with my favorite person in the world. I hope that doesn't sound sketchy. I wish it was reciprocated, but I made the decision to be universally mediocre a while ago, and there's no turning back from a decision (involuntary or not) to not excel in anything. The only thing I'm really, really good at is sucking at everything. It's not a very useful skill, except maybe to serve as a scapegoat for other people's depression and such things. If I can make them happy at my expense, at least I'm making them happy. I don't have the capability to do it any other way.
Re-reading that, I'll probably wonder why the hell I was being so emo and weird and trying to imitate a toolshed. I can always save myself with a quote from a song:
Drunk old soldier, he gives her a frightIf you haven't heard that song, this will make no sense to you. Look up the lyrics for the song "Lions", by Dire Straits, and ask me for a means of listening to the song if you have none. I'll find a way.
He's a crazy lion howling for a fight
My thoughts are organized, but the joy still overwhelms me. I'm going to get out of my chair and find a vent, because it's too much goodness to be contained. My happiness is the equivalent of the harmonic series, if you know what I mean. If you don't, just wait for some basic calculus.
I'm praying for someone because I think they need it. Why? It helps? Who does it help, exactly? Why pray when I could be doing other things? Eternal questions; I'm at a loss for eternal answers, but even then, I should know myself. How do I find myself? Zen has always appeared to be the wrong path. It has too many flaws. We're going to have to find another way. Time to call upon Leroy Jenkins. Merry Christmas to all, and goodnight!
posted by Andrew Hills at 5:03 PM
2 Comments:
but you know what? the four hours i hung out with you was worth the five hour drive, remember that.
and, in your second paragraph, well, second BIG paragraph, maybe its that sometimes you forget that people find you important, significant. i mean, which is a really great thing once somebody SHOWS that, but, keep in mind that you should never ever depend upon anybody else to make you happy. ok? sure friends are always going to affect that, even people whoa rent youre friends, but try try try. its hard to explin what im trying to say, i think ive rephrased and deleted this paragraph four times cuz i cant seem to get out exactly what im trying to say in excatly the right way.
when you describe that spot and how you wish you could go there with somebody and everything? well, i read that and associate it with wanting security, you know? somebody who means the world to you who you can always depend on, and a quiet peaceful sport where even fora moment you can think about ideas and philosophies and not be burdend by anything else. security, something to refresh you, and place to get away. am i way off? gosh, i dono, ive been looking into things too much anyway recently.
when you asked why does writing organize your thoughts, or, rather, when anybody talks about organizing anything, i always remember that scence from harry potter when dumbledor takes his wand, touches it to his head, thinkgs really hard about a certain person, evernt, or moment, and it comes floating out attached to his wand, and he sticks it into this sort of memory jar, well, ball, actually. i think we write because we need to get things out. we need to organize out thoughts. writing gives us the ability to sort things out one by one, let out every thought and emotion you have about that subject, then go on to the next subject and do the same for that one. you sort things into different catagories, get everything out onto the page, just like his his marble whatever-it-is, the "things" that you thinking/feeling are free, kind of. well, you're free of them, anyway.
"If I can make them happy at my expense, at least I'm making them happy."
lame. ok, so maybs youre being a little emo, but hey, i love emo people, hey, i pretty much am one, and you can too make people in other ways. duh andrew, com'n boy, use your head, how many times have i come to you and vented for 2 hours about random things you probably couldnt even understand since my thoughts are always such a mess?
p.s. praying for you
I don't depend on people to make me happy; I'm just shocked that I *could* feel that happy, and I'm grateful that you caused it.
The spot I described wasn't about security, necessarily. It was more of a description of one of the most peaceful experiences to be had on campus.
When you've vented to me, it doesn't count, because I enjoy that. And I can understand you, since even when your thoughts are a mess, your communication is mostly coherent.
P.S. Thanks.
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