There’s dead in the middle. Life on the outside, but slowly turning to dead on the middle.
Every node I read seems to shout “LIVE!!” at the top of its digital lungs. The ideas whirl by me,
the stories and the tales of
wondrous adventure. The momentum builds to the point I can no longer contain it, and I
burst forth from my dorm room like a
wildcat, scurrying to other rooms and places, looking for
prey. But the
stagnant force that is seemingly infecting everyone I know stops me cold. I whisper “Live!” in the corner of the room,
and I am silenced by their silence. Wounded, I crawl back to my
flickering screen.
When my new
college friends become to much, I retreat to my
room. There is something to be said for
being alone. When you are alone no one can judge you but yourself. The sound of my computer is reassuring, and I
put on some quiet music and immediately I am awash with emotions. Music is emotion; they are one in the same. I
sweep my head side to side, my mind traveling millions of miles into the expanse of imagination. But the imagination
is dragged back to reality by the reality of my roommate.
My roommate has the incessant need to be in the presence of horrible sounds. He doesn’t have a
bad taste in
music, but he needs more. I have learned more about the
WWF than I would have wished upon a death sentence
victim. The
hockey,
football,
wrestling,
baseball, and
Olympic spew that invade my life on a daily basis are
enough to make me question the value of sanity. But my sanity keeps me from being the center of attention in the
crowd of people I live with.
I am surrounded by people who seem bored. They were bored in
high school because they were
brighter or richer
than everyone. But they are bored now because they never had to
live before, they had always followed someone’s
lead. A select few realize this, and have started the process of breaking their mold. Our
beaks are fully formed, and
we are ready to break out of our
shells. One friend and I joined a
fraternity to serve just that purpose. While it
has opened up many new things, the
specter of alcohol looms on the horizon, beckoning all who would listen to its
call.
I told someone once that I was very saddened by the fact that I couldn’t remember much of what went on when I
lived in
Anchorage. I had lived in the basement apartment of
Russian landlords, and
my mother
home schooled us. I can count on one hand the number of buildings I went to other than that
apartment in all the 5 months I lived there. I grew inwardly, but I did not grow outwardly. I told this friend that I
considered the
winter a waste, that I had missed out on so much. He looked at me blankly and told me that he
couldn’t remember a single thing from that winter either, and he went to the same
public school his entire life. It
was shocking that he didn’t really care, and that it was one of my
greatest regrets about moving.
This feeling, this desperate longing for something else, is just a feeling. I know it will go away tomorrow. I won’t care
that my friends like
video football more than they’ll admit. I won’t care that I’m not living as I define it. I won’t
care. I’m dying inside, and my worries about it are dying too.
A toast, to tomorrow, when I won’t care . . .