Jose told me last night that, while waiting to fix my dad's computer at my house, he had an unexpectedly deep conversation with my mom. In that discussion, my mother told Jose that a real caveat of traveling so much, as he does, is that you very easily end up disillusioned with your own life back home. And then he start to relate less and less to those people around you because your norm is constantly changing. It makes sense: the reason that we're usually happy where we are is because we are content, because the values in our immediate society become our own, because we're part of a community fabric. But if you're always going off on your own, every place starts to feel foreign, and no place is home. And the home that you could once call your own is just some sort of artificial stopping ground as you inevitably grow restless and feel your wings clipped.
I'm sure my mother didn't mean for either me or Jose to extract so much from her simple statements. Maybe she was just doling out the kind of general, filler advice we're all so wont to propound when we're having casual conversations. Maybe she just wanted Jose to think about something as he munched on his apple. But it's one of those things that make you think -- especially in cases like mine and Jose's. We are always telling ourselves how fortunate we are that we have the luxury to travel and expand those damn horizons; and yet we always lament to each other how inexplicably depressed we are when we're at home.
I, myself, have been trying to figure out why I've been so down these days. There's no real reason. Academically and professionally, I'm where I should be. My usual preoccupations about my body are meritless at present because I'm too busy to either eat or obsess over the usual minutiae. Friends are pretty supportive, family is always receptive, money woes nonexistent. So why am I so spiritless?
I just don't want to be here. Is it what they call a slump, a funk, a rut? I'm starting to envision a life ahead of me filled with paperwork and deadlines, clockwatching and suit-wearing, scheduling and networking. The kind of shit Aaron Spelling likes to glamorize. Well, it's also the kind of shit I can no longer convince myself I was meant for. I used to think that doing that all day was worth it if it meant you could have Sunday brunch in a terribly posh sidewalk cafe and could afford all the Tod's bags your budget allowed. But life, unfortunately, is not all about earning and spending.
I have that feeling like... I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here, but I don't want to be here right now. What's talking right now -- youth, naivete, or candor? Is this sensible?
I always remember that moment last summer, or some moment the summer before, where I was enjoying life a little bit too much in some foreign country, and then having that urge to go home and make lots of dough so that I could have that feeling so many more times throughout my life. I remember thinking, "Well, this is some kind of ultimate high, and don't love it too much, because it's all downhill from here." You can't keep those moments forever; you can't even revisit them in your mind. They are like drugs or toxins that enter your bloodstream... that tease you and make you wanting more... but which lose their effect if taken in excess.
What am I saying here? That I need a vacation? A boyfriend, a house? To turn back time or accelerate it? Maybe just some guidance. Or a haircut. I need everything, and nothing at all.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 2:47 PM
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