The muddy water finds its lowest point of elevation and rests in metallic, globby puddles along the cracked streets of Quirihue, concrete seams to a patchwork of rubble and humble living. The cacophony of hammers and drills can be heard behind the yellow and brown walls, everyday rebuilding in a city that fell victim to a god's version of kick-the-can. The city was destroyed because it happens to be the epicenter of the Chile's third worst earthquake.
Even though I always hop the puddles, my pants and shoes are still somehow wet and muddy. The word ubiquitous comes to mind, and not just the inescapable feeling of always being dirty, but my entire stay in Chile has riddled my brain with ubiquitous polarities, like feelings of hankering anxiety and revelatory euphoria. The ubiquitous feeling of trying too hard, like writing a blog, or not trying hard enough, like losing contacts with everyone I love.
The ubiquitous loose associations send me into Proustian whirlwinds of cavernous thought, anything--the shape of a cloud can make me think of the Baltimore Zoo, the mist from a crashing wave reminds me of hosey water wars in July, wet jeans remind me of high school nights in corn fields. Sensory overload, and yet, there are times I feel completely numb to reality.
Is this what every person at the brink of a quarter-life crisis experiences? Should I be relieved that this is normal, or find solace in the fact that my case is special--what advice can heed to my favor?
"There are two lifestyles, that of a wolf and that of a sheep--the price of being a sheep is boredom, the price of being a wolf is loneliness." What is the medium?
An impending doom takes over, the ominous fraying of the rope, cut here, in Quirihue, loose ends of fate spurting out and ending at my disposal. I have anywhere to go, and anyone to be, but why does it seem like I have to walk on egg shells, and if one shell cracks my whole life will be colored a shade I will resentfully accept. If acceptance is another form of exhaustion, then maybe I should look for something that never tires me. I think it is being here, as tiring as it actually is. It reminds me of a David Foster Wallace quote:
¨Both destiny's kisses and its dope-slaps illustrate an individual person's basic personal powerlessness over the really meaningful events in his life: almost nothing important ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of 'psst' that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer."
Well, I think I answered the 'psst' but all I got was a business card with a name reading, "Destiny." I was looking for directions.
Life is short, but it is the longest thing you will ever do. I want to deconstruct, analyze and reassemble every microsecond. I want to treat my life like a taxidermist, dissecting and stuffing the remains of the present life, and leave it on a shelf of the past for visitors to see.
Worship the experience. Experience the worship.
Speaking of worship and DFW, some may find this intriguing.
The ubiquitous loose associations send me into Proustian whirlwinds of cavernous thought, anything--the shape of a cloud can make me think of the Baltimore Zoo, the mist from a crashing wave reminds me of hosey water wars in July, wet jeans remind me of high school nights in corn fields. Sensory overload, and yet, there are times I feel completely numb to reality.
Is this what every person at the brink of a quarter-life crisis experiences? Should I be relieved that this is normal, or find solace in the fact that my case is special--what advice can heed to my favor?
"There are two lifestyles, that of a wolf and that of a sheep--the price of being a sheep is boredom, the price of being a wolf is loneliness." What is the medium?
An impending doom takes over, the ominous fraying of the rope, cut here, in Quirihue, loose ends of fate spurting out and ending at my disposal. I have anywhere to go, and anyone to be, but why does it seem like I have to walk on egg shells, and if one shell cracks my whole life will be colored a shade I will resentfully accept. If acceptance is another form of exhaustion, then maybe I should look for something that never tires me. I think it is being here, as tiring as it actually is. It reminds me of a David Foster Wallace quote:
¨Both destiny's kisses and its dope-slaps illustrate an individual person's basic personal powerlessness over the really meaningful events in his life: almost nothing important ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of 'psst' that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer."
Well, I think I answered the 'psst' but all I got was a business card with a name reading, "Destiny." I was looking for directions.
Life is short, but it is the longest thing you will ever do. I want to deconstruct, analyze and reassemble every microsecond. I want to treat my life like a taxidermist, dissecting and stuffing the remains of the present life, and leave it on a shelf of the past for visitors to see.
Worship the experience. Experience the worship.
Speaking of worship and DFW, some may find this intriguing.
No comments:
Post a Comment