L̶o̶o̶k̶ ̶C̶l̶o̶s̶e̶r̶

Here I find myself, trying to write what has been unwritten. Mostly, I am repulsed by my past few entries (Both on here as well as my hard-copy journal). I suppose what I’ve found is that in the process of falling in love, becoming infatuated with another, one looses perspective. And not just in the sense of “This-person-is-perfect-when-they-actually-aren’t” but more in the sense of critical thought. I am disappointed to see the value of my thoughts, my writings diminish, paintings become a thing of the past, a book not picked up and friendships disappear.

Honestly, I feel like I am a lie. That I am transparent, and all that I had built up before any “relationship” was a facade that in fact did and does not encapsulate me, and my person, but rather was a mechanism of attraction. Such ‘weirdness’ and ‘intellect’ is pedastalled (I made that up) in college and young adulthood—Made even more common by the ever-popular Zooey Deschanel. Yesterday’s nerds (Negative connotation) are today’s dorks (Positive connotation). We are idolizing the outcasts, which makes me think. Of course this happened before (Or shows like Freaks and Geeks or Daria wouldn’t have been popular)(Well, Freaks and Geeks got cancelled after one season) so when was it not happening? The 2000s? Why is this revitalization of the “cool-nerd” occurring now? Of course, being a slave to a certain type of hip-trend culture, I fell into this trap, desperate to find a ‘quirk’ that made me unique. Different. Interesting. Immersed myself into not-so-pop-culture and idealized the independent, the starving artist, the tragic life I wished to lead.

But what did I end up with? Yes, I could say it was in fact for the better. I do not doubt my intellectual abilities, nor do I underestimate my talent. However, a lot of this was dishonest. A ploy to entice whomever; into thinking I was some smart, deep student who had opinions on everything. When, I really don’t. Some things, of course. But other things I find myself bullshitting a lot of the time. Although I can hold my own in certain conversations (Contemporary Art, Certain areas of Psychology), more often than not it seems like a one-up-war, a presentation of knowledge so as to impress the opposing candidate.

There’s always an unhealthy obsession with ‘the boy’, and that is what displeases me most. And each time I attempt to learn from this, I do not. Of course, I always take up art again after, trying to fill the empty space, the lack of love, with the flow of pseudo-creativity, create create and make and make and hope that it’s something valuable, something that says something, something that makes people feel something… But it is some thing that is intangible. Thoughts that are universal. Emotions that are universal. I suppose this is what Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko were able to achieve. (??) A universal understanding through art. This is why Christian paintings only touch a certain demographic— Why I can’t appreciate the Louvre like others before me have. This some thing is something I have to find for myself, before love can happen again. Because once that clock is ticking, it’s move-in-job-bills-dog-marriage-baby-family and suddenly I’m up to my face in debt and I’m working and I’m raising children and my life is no longer mine and I can not and will not walk away. I could leave right now. I won’t, but I could. With a family, I would never.

I have a feeling I will meet the man I marry soon. I don’t feel that it’s so far away anymore. Instead, it feels inevitably close, as if these next five years will entail everything that the so-called “American Dream” is. The last five years were awakening. Now, I feel I’ve awoken, I have the equipment, I have the manual, and I just need to put this together and the machine will work, whir, whirring the life I’ve never wanted but always have.