July 14th, 2013

I attempt communication with interesting personages, but the most interesting people I’ve met don’t fit any kind of profile. They are those to whom people my age probably never pay attention. I find in people my age, not so much a sense of adventure, but an unwillingness to delve deeper, and an aversion to the exotic and to the strange. I always expected this kind of adventure from the fashion-forward and culture bound (i.e. hipsters). Often, I have been cruelly disappointed.

When I make plans to meet someone, I spend a long time idealizing them, dreaming about them, only to figure out that their gaze is skin deep. I would like to say to such people that the soul is not always worn on the surface. I had a lucid dream once. In the dream I was falling from the sky into my apartment building, through layers and layers of stairs. I was able to see myself falling in the third person. I was able to see my transluscent ghost-body as I sunk into cracked and dirty porcelain. I think that’s what the soul is, and I think that’s what delving into another person can feel like. It is a strange type of exhilaration.

Without searching for them, I tend to attract people of substance. Why? Because of my natural curiosity, and my appreciation for the secret self. I have come to learn that I cannot always expect from others a life of intensity. I am the one who has gotten used to primitive unveilings, tears, and secrets that would set the soul on fire, and this kind of interaction forms the basis and foundation of all my relationships.

The prospect of working a job scares me. Working every day means giving up some portion of my inner life, my constructions. There is something inside of me that freezes up, curls, withers into itself, and dies. But to keep living this way is a different kind of withering.

Last night, I spent some time with old friends. We smoked an illicit substance. It was Joe, Josh, and Amanda. We hadn’t been talking about much, or anything too cerebral, but at the end of the night Joe complained about how thinking tires him out. Amanda, also, said: “I can’t fit another thought into my head.” I couldn’t believe these dead-heads were complaining about thinking. It was at this point that I felt an acute distance from them. I am always thinking about future prospects, how to gain in intelligence,  and I am always seeking to push the quality of my thought. Secretly, I grew exasperated with them. I took this to be a marker for the distance between what I am and what I once was. When will I find a lover, and a group of friends, who can fulfill my needs? This is my problem with communication: the boats are always circling, but they never shore up on my island.


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