nemo ad nemo

 At first I thought of writing down the individual changes that occurred on a daily basis as the pandemic continues, the minor details that I thought were important at the time and my reactions, but I already do that in my journal. I think it’s more worthwhile to reflect on what can be considered essential.

After all, is it food and medicine alone? As long as we have that and some entertainment we can have our social contracts adjusted and remain shuttered away while Big Brother takes care of the invisible enemy? A friend made a post on the anxiety associated with the social isolation, and how our daily routines are broken and we become listless and disinterested in all the hobbies and schemes we had for this special free time. However, he took a different approach by listing methods to create motivation and progress (like setting small and specific goals) rather than pushing forward just a little further into the uncomfortable question:

“What if the things you want to do—spend time, money or attention on—are not worth it?”

The “it” being essential to living and life as a whole. How much of our regular routine is a distraction, a cacophony of noise that makes the ongoing and dwindling melody of life bearable, but in a way that subtracts from living? I know I’m guilty of it. I cannot justify everything I spend my time on in the grand scheme of existence. But I don’t try to delude myself into thinking it’s an essential part of life.

Art, music, food, social gatherings; so much of everyday life is taken for granted, elevated to an item of worship and ignored as a mere signpost that time is still moving forward. And so much is squeezed in between financially securing a livelihood and keeping oneself alive that the challenge should be issued regularly and bluntly: “Is this essential?”

I’m an amateur thinker and a novice human, but this constant reorganizing of life to fit in a few more purchases and hobbies thinking our lives were destitute beforehand seems silly. We have been placed into a temporary timeout while the world burns to a smolder outside, and we are eager to rebuild the same ramshackle palace instead of redrawing our lives and what we should try and do when we can go outside and be free once more. We are destined to be free, and to make mistakes, but this silver lining of being told to stay put has given us time to bounce the thought back and forth: should I still pursue doing that?

The world will certainly be different when we emerge and mingle, but once the initial directives become muddled and we are again mostly free to do as we will, shall we be different?

I admire the people out there who quietly go about their lives, doing the tasks they set out to do. I don’t notice them most of the time (not at school anyways) until they receive that promotion, position, or achievement long-coveted by many. Reflecting on last year, I can say it was a crying shame. I wasted so much time, while knowing I was wasting time. Certainly, there were moments and days I was very happy with my decisions, but most often I have very elaborate plans that I watch pass me by, or say and do things I regret and can’t fix. This far into the new year, I know which opportunities are forever lost to me, and which ones I still can turn into achievements or failures. But back to the silent achievers, focused on their prizes. There’s a lot of hard work that is put in to get a job, or continuing education at a residency, or to be nominated for an award. Not only do you have to strive for it, but still have to be an upright character off the courts. I mean to say that the end doesn’t justify the means, and I have little respect for those who trick and scheme their way into those positions. The honest people out there though; they inspire and make me feel inadequate. I’ve long tried to be everything, and to suck the marrow out of life, but that requires willpower, focus, and a reserve of energy that rivals the sun itself. Even knowing I couldn’t succeed, I failed far worse than I could hope to. Which brings me back to the point of focused people, who don’t seem to be doing much else. How are we to know that they do not have their own fantastic little worlds full of life? The points of intersection are where our abilities and work overlap. It is in this overlap that they seem focused, and that is admirable; while I goof off and do an average job they focus and do an excellent job. I want to be that. I want to focus, be focused, and to stop spreading myself thin, even as I grasp for opportunities to shirk my responsibilities. I will try not to do all things in all places, even if it is honest, but to focus and be less. And in being less, to focus more, see, hear, and speak clearly. That is what I long to do. I know I won’t read all the books, take all the good pictures, or graduate with all the honors to the most prestigious hospital and job afterwards, but by golly I can prune away my own selfish desires, and keep my eyes on less distractions by focusing them on the goal. I set out to help people, and I need energy, a clear mind, an able body, strong character, and proper knowledge to carry out that help. Maybe I’m just spouting more nonsense. We’ll see.

This thought is far from original, even for me. When we have our lives ahead of us, and ample privilege and opportunities to choose from to create our future, we become disheartened in settling on one choice, and tend to grasp for all, losing the satisfaction of doing one thing well, thoroughly. We would rather think ourselves the exception, and try to befriend everyone, being everywhere, thinking all things, doing all things. We mistake our “depth” of understanding for the experiences we’ve heard stories of, and prop up our shallow experiences in instagram-worthy poses, letting the likes fuel and direct our future. We certainly can’t know if what was recorded in the annals of history was deeper, but the paper thin stories we recite with exaggerated adjectives probably don’t have impostor syndrome. It is the simple act of being simple, of deciding what few individuals you shall trust as friends, of which few hobbies you shall keep, and occupations you shall master that creates an ordinary life that is true, and in being true, extraordinary in the world. Most of the people around us, especially me, are mediocre. I won’t be great or famous, and I shall do what is in my power from becoming infamous, and shall likely pass away like the mists when the sun climbs over the hills. And yet, though I think many of us are aware of the trade we make, giving our time for separation of self to shallowness to “accomplish” more, we are complacent. We laud ourselves, and others, that we are the exception to the rule of being ordinary, and yet I think that being ordinary is a special thing that so many have forgotten. Or are we ignorant of it? That in order to have the fruit of our labors be numerous and full, we ought not try to keep every branch, but cut off that which we keep just for show and not for flourishing.

Does motivation come from finding meaning in life or finding purpose in life? The two are often conflated, but are quite different. This isn’t a long explanation and dialogue back and forth, but a series of questions.Why is that I have a plethora of good reasons that I agree are important, good, and beneficial to me and others, but still do not do what ought to be done? Why do I set aside time to do things and not do them? why do I run away from simple tasks when I am utterly furious and fueled to only do those things? Why do I do nothing when I say, think, and believe I should do something?

Am I just tired? I feel tired, and I fear this tiredness is far worse than basic physiological tiredness. I am tired of manufacturing meaning for that which I engross myself with. If I have to manufacture meaning, then I know that I was not forced to accept this meaning, and that I do not naturally have this meaning. It is a meaning that I have to make, rely on, hope for, in order to do all that I think is important. I hope I’m wrong. I can’t tie a carrot on a stick in front of me, if I know I have to grow the carrots myself, and that I must repeat this every day. Really, it’s less growing carrots and more painting wood orange and tying it in front of me.This feels like a punishment, for digging too deep into the earth in search of bedrock that wasn’t there. I’ve ruined the carrots, and the ground to walk on.

So I went to Japan, and I loved it. It was fantastic, and I got to experience so much. By the time I was leaving I felt as though I was at home, even though I knew practically no words and relied completely on my friend or Google Translate to help me communicate. I missed it terribly, feeling as though I was travelling when I was sleeping in my bed at home. There’s a break coming up for me in December, and I’m debating visiting the country again, but the problem is I’d have to do it alone this time. After looking at the prices, it’s plausible, but I have reserved feelings about it. I had very grandiose plans for the trip last year. I wanted to learn Japanese from the ground up. I didn’t want to get my feet wet in the culture, take a couple cute photographs and brag about how worldly I am. I wanted to observe, interact, and blend in, as much as a foreign white guy can blend in with Japanese people. However, working full time, having extra projects, and occasionally wanted to regain strength and do nothing sucked up my summer, and when school restarted it left me reeling from all I had to do in my limited schedule. By the time we had to depart, I knew next to nothing, and felt like I was going in blind. Thankfully, my friend mothered us and guided us through a lot of situations and places, exhibiting supernatural patience and doting care. This time, if I survive everything, I’d be going alone. Having friends to talk to and share experiences with is a certain type of vacation; an adventure that is meant to be shared. The times spent alone are a respite, not a default assumption of how the trip will go. Going alone, it’s the obvious default, and the trip takes on an entirely different dynamic. No longer are there concessions for others, all is centered on what can be achieved by you. And that’s what worries me. There was much I wanted to see on my last trip. Many places I would have skipped or lingered at, but as a group we had made plans and I appreciated the sacrifices others made for me as well. Here, I get to call all the shots, but I fear I won’t be ready. I can research and study, practice and memorize, but that requires time. I don’t have time; I have even less time than I did last year, and this year of school is even more crucial than last year’s. Good prioritization dictates I devote adequate time to studying and projects, and only then turn to preparing for a recreational trip, and that will leave me in the same boat as I was in last year: ignorant and aware of it. I think I could have gotten even more out of the trip had I prepared and done more research, but I didn’t. I had a wondrous time, and romanticized the experience while still in Japan. All my memories of the place, good and bad, are shown in the light of it being a delightful trip, and returning without having grown in appreciation will shatter that illusion I’ve so carefully cultivated. Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware no place is perfect, and I had my eyes wide open for everything, good and bad. But my experiences were ones of friends and understanding. Of being anchored into the country. Going alone is just me, and I would not do the trip justice. It’s like a fine whiskey being drunk by a pleb who can’t stomach sipping a neat drink. So much would go by the wayside as I meandered about, trying hard to figure out what it is I’m doing as I’m doing it. I mean, really this can be said of any vacation, and trip outside of what one might consider their “home”. People do have different things that they want out of a vacation; but knowing that I could have had more at the cost of going a year or two later would eat me up inside. How saddening. And privileged. Not everyone can go on vacation, and certainly not for doing nothing but making it to a break in schooling.

There’s no necessity for a jukebox, but it might be in the corner, gathering dust. The kitchen with all it’s cooking paraphernalia is offscreen too. I see powder blue wall tiles, a chrome-rimmed table jutting from the wall and tan coffee mugs that exude conformity to the wrong decade. The coffee is steaming and still too hot to drink, so I just clutch at the handle. That’s how I imagine a diner late at night. I’d become more aware of other things if it was a real experience, but it’s a made up place for me to get old thoughts out. I went to bed at 8 pm, and woke up incredibly early, and here we are 2 hours later. I’ve been getting 5-6 hours of sleep each night. That weight upon my chest is persistently present, and the stabbing pain takes longer to go away. The pins and needles are in my hands and feet every day, and have migrated up the left side of my trunk and to both my arms. I can feel them now, even though I have little to worry about right now. Yesterday was pretty great though. Just as far as absent pain goes. I didn’t do so hot on my retake, wasn’t productive with my free time, and was dead tired by 8. To top that off a friend was upset and I did a sub-par job of comforting her. Not that I’m very good at comforting to begin with, but I think I could’ve done a bit better. That’s just yesterday though. This entire school year has been rough. I feel spread thinner than I normally am. There are few moments of calm and quiet, where I have time to burn. But really, that doesn’t exist, does it? I’m always moving to and fro, and any time devoted to recreational activities makes me feel guilty of wasting time. Time and attention is a limited resource--- How utterly proper that I decided to shelve the discussion there. I stopped writing, stopped the conversation mid-sentence, and I don’t remember what I had wanted to say. I only know that I was spread thin and resolved to not be broken. I wanted to make sure that I had the strength to finish the year as myself and took time each day for mindfulness, and forced myself to go to sleep earlier, but that didn’t last. My resolve never lasts. I’m a weak failure, and will always fail. Here we are much later, and with a whole new mess in my lap. I don’t know where to go from here. I can only stand. Hold fast. That stupid line from Master and Commander stuck with me. I don’t know how I can talk freely when I took an oath to keep it secret. Obviously i am just venting to myself. There is nobody that will read this but me, and yet I can’t talk about it. I’ve talked with others, but I haven’t talked with myself. This is a moment where we learn who we are. This is a moment where I learn who I am, and when I slowed down just a little, I hate it. I try not to swear. I only use swear words to quote others, and find swearing to be crude and unimaginative, though certainly by building a reputation as someone who doesn’t swear, swearing all of a sudden does bring attention to my emotionally excited state. I can’t say that is the case anymore. I’ve been swearing left and right the entire semester. I am infuriated, and anger takes so long to seep out of me. I am filled to the brim with sorrow because of this. I hate being filled with hatred, I hate that I can no longer sit down and ask people how their day is going and fully listen, because my mind is elsewhere. I’m not cut out for my positions. I feel useless, and don’t feel like I’m accomplishing what I set out to do. I don’t think I am maintaining my friendships to the extent that I want to. I feel distant, and almost mechanical. I long to just sit and rest, have caught myself sighing far too frequently. I hold onto grudges, nurse them and raise them even though they’re illegitimate children that should be banished from my sight. I feel as though I shirk my responsibilities, and fear I cannot even vent appropriately. I can’t even stay the course correctly, and ramble on about different things. I want to apologize for my thoughts and shared experiences, and yet that would mean I apologize for being me. for living and interacting with others and daring to share. and I feel like apologizing still despite that. I’m always sorry, always in the wrong. What does it matter that I said something, and why did I repeat it? What am I holding fast to? The parasthesia is still absent, but the anxiety is back. The constant struggle to finish a breath. The war my ribs must fight to keep my hear from breaking through them. I can’t go on much longer. I want to hide, and I want to slow down. I want us to talk. I want people to be honest, and I want people to change. I’ve grown too cynical to hope for change, and eagerly await my departure from the scene. I’ll be a nobody again, with no one to talk to, except my diner friend, and no one to disappoint. What a grand time will be had by all when that occurs. I’m just rambling. I don’t know whether it’s this is worth adding on to or rearranging. I’m just so tired. Exhausted. Spent.

I figured I could try to write out all the incongruent and continuing thoughts in my head and get this off my chest. I don’t like celebrating my birthday. I don’t know how many times I’ve said that. I know last year I wrote about the hobbit approach, being grateful for others in my life and expressing that thanks in the form of gifts. I kept it a closely guarded secret. Even my sister managed to forget it was my birthday. Things were simple, and the day came and went, with little hubbub. This year, I felt nothing but sadness surrounding my birthday. Classmates and friends learned about it and made several gifting attempts at a birthday surprise. And through it all the most I could muster was amusement. It was painful to walk, to smile, to thank. The words felt hollow as they left my mouth, and I did my best to act normal. I’m not sure why, but that’s why these musings are here.

I have crippling low self-esteem. Sometimes I can’t even raise my head to do basic tasks or keep moving; I feel frozen, and have to do a pep talk just to start putting on my socks. Other times I just don’t want to look in the mirror; I’ve managed to do absolutely nothing and be nothing. And all that ties into me being noticed. I don’t trust comments of praise.

This is the most repetitive, but I did nothing on my birthday. I didn’t walk out of the womb, and I didn’t cure cancer or fix the economy while crying and toothless. My mother did a lot of hard work bringing me into this world, and then both my parents embarked on the difficult journey of raising me, exhibiting incredible patience and wisdom in raising me up. God bless them for that, but I don’t come into the picture as far as celebration goes, unless if we’re talking capitalistic consumerist trends.

People lie all the time. I try my best to be honest, but I’m sure I lied here or there. Overall I consider myself a truthful person, and find sincerity incredibly important. People matter. Kinda. Everything is meaningless, including people. The further out one looks with their imaginary cosmic lens, the less people matter. We are tiny little creatures living on a speck orbiting a brighter, larger speck, swirling in an arm of a larger speck of the universe. Zooming in on one individual (whoever it may be) and assuming inherent importance of that individual is very self-absorbed. We’re made of matter, but we don’t matter all that much. However, we are excellent at fabricating meaning. Discovering it. Changing it. I often wonder where the subjective line can be drawn so that the objective truth of meaninglessness can be poured and set, like a foundation of meaninglessness on a land of arbitrary assumptions. Is our creation and manipulation of meaning our ability as special creatures to see into an additional dimension of existence and surmise that there is a meaning that exists? Like the Mantis Shrimp being able to see ultraviolet waves of light, so we too can detect meaning. It’s a very long conversation about whether the mere existence of the concept of meaning implies the existence of meaning, regardless of our ability to detect it, so I won’t start it. I’ll summarize by saying meaning, regardless of its objective existence, can be placed onto people, things, events, and so on, in a subjective sense, and I haven’t an authority to refute another’s perspective/statement that I too have meaning and that my day of birth has meaning.

I’ve had quite a few birthday parties. I remember trying to be cool. Longing for friends. Choosing the optimal day at the start of summer and inviting my friends a month or more in advance. I’d plan out elaborate treasure hunts and other games, set up a pinata, and invite a number to sleep over the night before. I didn’t have people over the entire year, and this was my one chance to have them hang out with me. I was so excited, but every year had a repetition. I was far more excited about things than my friends were. They hung out all the time, and based off of attention given, my activities were either too boring or too complicated. I set them up, and tore them down, while they continued doing their own thing. From today’s vantage point I wouldn’t mind doing that. I am the host after all. But that’s painful for a kid version of me to do. Clean up the scraps of a destroyed pinata while everyone goes inside to wait while the cake gets prepped. #firstworldproblems This goes back to the previous point, but if someone wants to celebrate my birthday, I have a hard time believing them. They either want to celebrate under the pretense of checking off a box that they care about me, or are faking their interests. I’ve seen the empty quotes, empty nights, empty eyes at times that were considered the crescendo of celebration. Why is it that I, a nobody, suddenly matter to this person? Is it genuine, or did Facebook simply remind them that they should care? It is far better for them to smile and talk to me throughout the year, maintaining a relationship and forgetting my birthday, than ignoring my existence until my birthday rolls around.

All these thoughts keep running to and fro in my head, making trails and kicking up dust. It’s hard to make them settle down, and they keep tugging at other strings of memories, like unintentionally cruel children playing with a kitten all wrong.

I counseled a female on some medications and she signed “thank you” at the end. I didn’t know she was hearing impaired; maybe she wasn’t and was simply communicating a somewhat well-known sign, but it took me off-guard. I was just counseling on the basics, and didn’t think about slowing down or pointing out things more specifically. The thank you may have been out of politeness (and a sarcastic way of saying to pay more attention next time) instead of sincerity, or she may have genuinely been thanking me. I will probably never know.

I didn’t expect this. This is worse than when I read those posts on Ben’s feed and imagined they were true, than tried to talk myself out of them. But this is real. Surreal actually. I can’t fall asleep, and I know I have a lot I need to do tomorrow. An incredibly quiet voice says things might still change, but that’s unlikely. I can’t believe it. Statistically, it’s inevitable, and death will come for everyone. My feelings are like a tide, slowly coming in, but going out before they spill out of my eyes. This increased distance over time and infrequency of contact has made it easier for me, but there are plenty of strings getting pulled, and memories come back. I feel robotic, callous, like a malfunctioning robot that neither welcomes nor pushes away emotions.

So Mother’s Day has come and gone again. Like most things, I don’t know if I’ve already ranted about the silliness of holidays and their continued necessity, but I’ll repeat myself: Humans quickly forget what’s important, and in an effort to do something while seemingly doing nothing, we put people and things we appreciate into boxes of 24 hours. We might care throughout the year, but by golly we will certainly care on that calendar day printed out in advance. So here we are on Mother’s Day, but we can just as easily substitute in Father’s Day: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, all buzzing with posts about people celebrating their mothers.

Why? Why do you post a picture of your mum, saying how awesome and caring she is? Wouldn’t your time be better spent with her, giving her attention and affection, however she interprets that? Optimally you being loving would be year round, and Mother’s Day would come and go as just another day in the year. Instead, there’s a picture of you posing with your mother, saying how cool she is. If she’s so cool, where’s the pictures throughout the year? Do you need our approval of your mom’s appreciation? If you didn’t post a picture or a comment, does that mean we are free to assume you hate your mother and did absolutely nothing on Mother’s Day to show your appreciation?

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Well, I can’t sleep, and why transpose this from a notebook when I can type it away now. I’m exhausted and want to sleep all day, and when I finally can go to sleep I have no desire to do so.

Anyway, I won the elections for the positions I’ve been striving for, stressing out and getting anxious about. And much like my entry into the professional program, while a quiet excitement burns inside, I don’t show it. I barely feel it. It’s as if I knew all along that I’d get those positions, even though other qualified people were running and could have gotten the positions. It all seems so mundane, and odd to fixate on victory. Instead I start thinking about all I will need to accomplish with the new role. Which makes me pause and be pleasantly surprised that people congratulate me. I was passionate about trying to do something and believed I’d honor the duties and responsibilities of the position, but when I get it I’m barely animated. Maybe I just can’t process very happy moments well; it’s a shame because often I’m not the only one trying to get a position, or there are others who’ve also been elected to positions. This lack of awareness keeps me from congratulating others, which I regret later when everything comes back to me.

It’s kinda sad reading and watching my facebook feed after the marches this month. On one hand, they demonstrated solidarity; they showed people everywhere coming together and saying this is not acceptable. But I don’t think it was all constructive. A sentiment that begins and ends with an expletive at the president doesn’t cry for justice, but hammers out ad hominem that is then used by the opposition to dismiss the march as a whole. I mean, to disagree that there was any benefit or rational arguments were present because of some marchers’ signs is an ad hominem itself, but that isn’t stopping either “side” from shouting at how stupid and evil the other side is.