It seems I’ve been wrong… there are no emotional juggernauts, unyielding to the elements. Or rather, erosion is sometimes unnoticeable. We might all indeed be… poised over smoldering finitude, its flames licking our limbs, sometimes charring our resolve.
The ingredients were right it seems… rainy day, sick day taken off from work/research, home alone with nothing but my electric audio scroll called iTunes, foaming countless memories off its lip onto the sofa countertop because I accidentally shook my head a little before opening.
When a song you’ve written 2 or 3 years ago still evokes the sadly happy (or is it happily sad?) disconnection from surroundings when taking a listen for the first time in a while, you can know one of a couple things: (1) the song is intrinsically a damn good song, its capability of being fully appreciated independent of time; (2) the song was in fact not that good at all when it was bottled and sealed, but rather it aged quite well, having responded tastefully to incubation from life… a sort of, silent watcher on the wall, growing in understanding and maturity as it watches your life carry on. You’ve forgotten its there, but it, having been put forth by you, has not. A time capsule, it stands hidden from memory, immune to perils and transitions and outcomes and fears and… lessons; (3) You’re just in some sad, but beautiful, way, the same exact soul you were when you bottled the song a quarter-decade ago. Sad because, well, no one’s happy with himself entirely, but beautiful because that’s quite simply the way that is, and ya know what, I think we need to learn that our selves are indeed something to be embraced. (read: Who you are is who you are so get over it.) Not satisfied with how that came out; sounds like I’m endorsing a fluffy secular campaign slogan for tolerance and self-confidence.
But damn how Gasping for Air and Father & Son have touched me. I must lend my improved recording and producing skills to the release of studio versions of these songs (well, at least Gasping for Air). I owe it to my former self. …Kierkegaard is right, I’ve gotta start repairing that relationship before the next onslaught of despair hijacks my being.
I crunch numbers and devour concepts as my eyes digest the text. "All control systems must be stable. Instability occurs only due to the mistakes made by the system designer or due to the changes in the properties of the controlled plant, which could not be foreseen at the stage of system design." I find it obnoxiously ironic. Why? I lost my train of thought, so I don’t know. People going through life are the real case study here: The Jon Michelson system was “designed” via repetitive stimulation and pressure by two engineers very much in love, and was cast into the throes of this terrestrial plant’s ever-changing properties. And mistakes riddle any system’s existence, really. Lack of instability is indeed a miracle.
I crawl through my white shirt, and adorn my neck with that never-washed skinny black tie from TJ Max. I don’t know who I am; at first glance my reflection is a young man headed to church with a level head informed by the gospel, but a closer look reveals the boyish wrinkles and creases that stifle my attempts at adulthood. I need a damn iron.
Although my legs are snared by these pink blankets, my torso and upper body are still free to move about….so far. Soon they will find themselves collectively drifting into the cushy cloudy dreamland from whence these blankets came.
Found myself reading this (http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~harchol/gradschooltalk.pdf) for an hour last night instead of finishing up my hopeless E-mags homework. I want to want to pursue a PhD. The idea is so attractive. Get paid to expand the body of human knowledge. Be one of the most well-read people in the world about your subject area. Silently boast to yourself of having attained the highest-level degree in academia. But nah, that’s not me. It’s almost me. The mental & emotional fortitude & resolve necessary for ~6 years’ devotion to a question that may not even have an answer? Who are ya kidding there boi. You’re hardly made it through your Junior year kiddo. That, orrrrrrrr maybe when I’m applying for Fellowships for Doctorate programs in 3-4 years I can go back to this post and see how much I’ve changed. Or stare it in the face and sentence it to death.
Well I suppose it was only a matter of time until I returned here. Why else wouldn’t I have deleted my tumblr instead of leaving it vacant for a few…years…? It seems the past me knew exactly how to hook the future me in: just leave it up and running, and eventually the nostalgic juices of my tumblr days would start oozing forth. I’m so damn predictable. But I love it I think. I wonder when I’ll grow up, but then again I’m 21. Cobwebs in the cyber world don’t seem too deterring.
Freewrite: My baby Norfolk pine tree is eh… kinda dying. I am a failure of a plant owner. I can’t help but fixate on how eerie of an analogy to some aspect of my life it is: relationships, care of self, faith? nahhhhh. I water it just enough to keep its needles awkwardly in between green and brown, its branches curling in sighs of exasperation: “I am dying because this fool cannot bring himself to water me twice a week.” Is it weird that I see myself doing the same to my future wife in my marriage? Something so simple as watering the roots of this good, good thing is something I fail to do. Sure, I’m gonna keep it alive, but not enough to beam forth healthy green needles and a strong bark-y trunk and assertive, perky branches. It’ll just be taking up space. You dramatic fuck.
…I’m lying on the top bunk while my younger brother is lying on the bottom. He cannot sleep, and so he is crying. Because he is crying, I cannot sleep. And so I am crying. My mom enters the room to tend to us. How I love her. The parallelogram of hallway light creeps in as the door grows more and more open. I see her bend down as she approaches the bottom bunk to comfort Nick.
After that, the rest is blank.
“com" - root meaning: "with”
“passion" - root word is passus, meaning: “pain, suffering”
To share in someone’s pain, to suffer with them - this is the true and literal meaning of compassion. None of us really know that it means so much more than just “feeling bad.”
To have passion for something means that without it, we would experience pain and suffering. With that said, I think it’s safe to say that our friends are something we’re passionate for. So shouldn’t we have compassion for those which we’re passionate for? I certainly think so.
So here’s something that struck me as pretty powerful.
The other day I was eating these awesome, juicy apple slices. I know, random. Then when my mom asked for some, I was like “sure,” and I gave her a piece. But when she asked for another, and yet another, I found myself getting incredibly irritated. I simply told her, “But these are sooo good. I’ve already given you some,” and I went on to finish my delicious fruit.
To my surprise, she was awfully upset. “Why?” I thought to myself. I mean, I had already given her a good bit of this abnormally awesome apple. Shouldn’t she be thankful that I had given some to her in the first place? I didn’t realize what the problem was - until she responded to what I had said.
“Because it’s so good, shouldn’t you want to share it? So others can taste how good it is?” It hadn’t struck me then, but looking back, isn’t that deep??
Ladies and gentlemen, we share for the wrong reasons. We shouldn’t share because it’s “nice,” or because you feel good about doing it, or even because it’s the right thing to do. We should share because: we should want others to know how awesome whatever it is that we’re keeping to ourselves. Be selfless when others are selfish, spread the love, you na mean?
So do yourself a favor, next time you are really enjoying something, give it to the friend you next come across, so that he can really enjoy it. Instead of giving others stuff you don’t like, save it for yourself and give others the stuff you love.