March 18, 2012 § Leave a comment
The Japanese has the same double play on the word ‘lost’ as in the English.
I’m both lost and a person who has been lost.
And of course, I’m only a child.
Physiologically speaking, I’m probably considered a ‘young adult’.
That’s such an oxymoron.
Nothing about me feels ‘adult’ and everything screams ‘young’. Green. Naive. Bewildered. Overwhelmed. Lost.
I feel like all those little children from the Grimms’ fairy tales that always seem to wander off and get lost in the big, dark, scary woods.
Enough with all the obscure metaphors and analogies.
Basically, I — I . . .
Oh goddammit, ‘lost‘ just works so well.
I don’t know what to do with myself, what I want to do in life, what I want to do with my life, what am I doing at college, why am I there, where I’m going, where I’ll end up, if I can do everything I want to do, if I can make a difference, an impact before I go, everything just swirling and swirling around in this muddied white noise of a mess.
It’s just that there is so much I want to do but I don’t know if I can accomplish any of that, and I feel continually frustrated by both my doubt and my actual lack of ability.
The gap between my goals and my abilities creates all this stupid doubt, and I feel like I’m not progressing anywhere. I’m floating in this liminality, constantly spinning and flipping around to see a trail, a path, some sort of guiding light, something to lead me out of this fog. But there’s nothing, nothing but a slowly creeping sense of numb panic, panic that I’ll be lost forever, that in trying so desperately to lead a life of significance, I’ll instead fade away into nothingness.
Lately, all I’ve really been wanting to do is take a trek through the British landscape, meet all sorts of people and have all sorts of adventures, and just write about the whole lot.
(Not ‘journal’ — I don’t like the word ‘journal’ because it reminds me of ‘journalism’ and I’ve never really cared for that form of writing.)
I’ve always wanted to go to the UK. Note my wording — not ‘visit’, not ‘see’, but go there. I don’t want to ‘live’ there necessarily but I do want to spend a considerable amount of time there, enough that I can wander through all the urban, modern cities as well as explore all the beautiful, pastoral countrysides.
I’ve always had a deep love for fantasy, and Great Britain is just steeped in it.
I mean, I know many other cultures have their own fantasy tradition but I have a particular love for British fantasy, the land from which classics like Alice in Wonderland, The Hobbit, and Harry Potter were born. The culture that nurtured such authors like Diana Wynne Jones (Chrestomanci, Howl’s Moving Castle, Dalemark Quartet, Fire and Hemlock, Hexwood, The Merlin Conspiracy), who is and always will be, my personal favorite.
I’ve always wanted to write.
I don’t know if I have what it takes to be a full-fledged author but I just have this constant need to spill my heart and mind.
And I just have this ache to write stories, but what’s so incredibly, unbelievably frustrating though is that I want to write stories but I don’t know of what. I have these ideas — no, not even, they’re more like these sensations, amorphous scraps of ideas for stories but since they’re so vague, so there-yet-not-there, that even if my fingers itch and ache to write something, nothing comes out.
I feel like I just need to get away.
There’s all this uncertainty, so much stress piling up, and I think it’s because I’m supposed to have an idea of my life direction and work towards that but I just feel lost and almost as if I’m rebelling against the established structure of school, college, career.
I don’t want to jump right into a job after college. Hell, I don’t even want to select a major. I just want to continue taking whatever classes I want, willy-nilly, exploring my options and learning all sorts of disparate subjects. Because, to me, everything and anything are connected; there is no such thing as irrelevancy.
The more I can broaden my mental horizons, the more I can bring to my stories.
Yet I feel this growing pressure to specialize, to follow a path that I can’t see but can only stumble blindly through.
I don’t even know if I’m doing well in any of my classes. Wait, no, that’s not quite it — I know how well I’m doing in terms of letters and numbers and all that but I’m upset about the idea of “doing well”. The idea of college and classes is to learn, right? So why the stress on excellence, on exceeding others? What does it matter that I get a F or an A due to some arbitrary calculations as long I’m taking something away? As long as I’m taking a lot away?
To be judged and delineated by a bunch of numbers and letters — I might as well be barcoded with my ‘grade’.
(Hey, look, a grade A girl; I bet she’ll cook that grade A meat like a pro.)
[I can’t cook for my life, by the way]
I feel like I need to experience a world outside of grades, one where I can assure myself of my self-worth through something deeper than a couple of random letters and numbers.
I feel like I just need to get away because the sheer noise and panic and stress of my everyday life is overwhelming everything else in my mind.
I just need to get away, away from all that noise, and just breathe.
Because then . . .
Well, at the very least, my mind will be free and empty for those amorphous scraps to come out and play.
So yes, that trip through Great Britain.
I literally just want to walk everywhere, take on random jobs so I don’t starve, and just let myself live. Soak in Life.
What ever happened to just living?
All this studying, homework, essays, reading, tests, exams — it’s all to determine my path in life yet it’s only making me lose sight of what’s truly important.
What’s important to me.
What is important to me anyway?
I don’t know . . .
But there are things I do like and care about.
Friends, for example. People. Expression. Writing. Communication. Exploration. Culture. Cultures. Smiles. Laughter. Fantasy.
That sparkling of the eyes when we’re excited about something.
(I know what makes my eyes sparkle.)
So in a sense, I’m going to intentionally lose myself in order to find my way.
I mean, if following the pre-established road is making me lost then perhaps I should go on a jaunt through the unmarked woods in order to find my own trail?
So . . . to summarize
- I’m lost as I am where I am
- I want to get away from all the noise
- I want to explore the UK
- I want to write
- I want to come back to myself
- I want to live
Don’t get me wrong, I love my college, my classes (most of the time), and my friends there.
It’s just, I can feel depression slowly creeping back on me because I’m so lost.
I’ve lost my sense of way.
I’ve lost my sense of self.
I’ve lost my sense of life.
This hypothetical trip through Great Britain is my “Eat, Pray, Love” journey.
I don’t know if it’ll ever happen but it’s still something nice to fantasize about.
(I really want to do it but I don’t know if I can pull it off . . .)
I feel kind of guilty or ashamed. I’m only nineteen, I’m so young and privileged; what am I doing moping around?
I just wish I knew what to do.
I guess that’s all I’m really saying.
No, I’m really saying more but it all cycles back to each other so there’s really no need to say everything (again).
(I’m just so scared of buckling under the weight of the ‘adult’ world. It’s so much, just so much, and I don’t know if I can survive under it all.)