The Unjustified Rant and Incomprehensible Mumble

A month more, and I think I’m wrong again. And once again, it’s about everything. Not wrong, per say, but misguided. Stumbling to the beat of another non-existent Christmas drum. I’m down to three weeks left on my freedom and I realized I’m not ready. I’ve been living incorrectly, but I think I understand why.

I’ve spent my time feeling as if I needed to learn something life changing, that Paris would give me freedom, or inspiration, or catharsis, or perspective. And it can, but I’ve got to let go. I’ve spent 3 months, understanding that the life I’m leading is different from the one I’m used to, a more relaxed, open existence. A time when not much matters. But there is still something not quite right. Because, even though I understand this, I haven’t accepted it. I’m stuck trying to fit my life from home into my life here. And I’ve bastardized both. I lament the lack of cooked food, refrigeration, TV, desensitizing technology, family, friends, but I haven’t realized I don’t need those things here. That my semester abroad is supposed to be different, that I am supposed to get away from the United States, assimilate into a new life, and appreciate it. I still can’t do it though, I can’t just throw away what I knew and agree to be new. Like a phoenix, I should be reborn, but I’ve got to set my world on fire first, and I still haven’t figured out how to strike the match.

I’m getting desperate now. I’m struggling, I’m worried, I’m a mixture of emotions that I can’t identify. I’m tired of school, I’m tired of campus, I’m tired of food, of worrying, of finals, of reading, of thinking, of sleeping, of passing the day in an otherwise inane manner on a campus too far outside of Paris to be of any use to me. I hate business, food, need and winter, but I love winter, I love memories, and life, and laziness, and trying to relax, but I hate that I can’t do it. Too concerned with what it should be, rather than with what it is.

I’m not home, I don’t need those things, I don’t need to fit a typical day into life here. I won’t have room for an otherwise non-typical day if I do. Maybe these ideas are from the lack of travel. Since the break, I haven’t visited any other countries, and I don’t think I will now that my time comes to a close. Time has not slowed down, but it has gotten worse, because although it still travels fast, I’m stuck in motion on the wrong track. I love Paris, I love walking around at night, or sharing a drink with my friends, or just seeing some sight that I haven’t seen, but it reaches a point when I no longer care what I see. Impressionism is rococo is history is skyscraper is arch is shopping is croissant is movement is meaningless is school is day is number. I DON’T CARE! I want to be a bum, I want to struggle for my survival, and it’s because it boils down to the question that from which stems everything pent up inside. How am I supposed to spend 24 hours a day for the next 70 years occupied? How do I fill the day? Hobbies, cooking, eating, reading, sitting, sleeping, can only stretch so far. Life is too short, but that’s only because it takes us so long to reach the point. To accomplish anything. If I didn’t spend half my day piddling around, I don’t think I’d need more than 40 years to reach the apex. But I know, not even 200 years will be enough.

When I write, I start with an idea, and for a month, I haven’t even bothered to think of it. I’d love to be a writer, but even that’s not a viable career path. I want to be a thinker, I want to keep my ideas in my head, to contemplate them on my own. They run so fast, the only way I can remember them is to not try and document them but to piggyback them and hope for the best. A month has passed, and so much has happened that it’s not worth it to tell.

Clubs, walking, laughing, running, waltzing, prancing, singing, fun, friends, sights, and you’ve seen it, you’ve been there. You know me, because you associate your own ideas with mine, and even if I did tell you, you’d still be yourself and you’d still only remember yourself. A problem in itself. You can’t know me, I can’t know you, I love you and vice-versa but our selfishness and pride and contempt runs too deep. So I keep it to myself.

3 weeks and I cry, I trip, I die, and I refuse. But still it comes. Open my heart, my soul, my breath, my bed, and join me, for this is an adventure and I’ll be damned if it will be wasted in a sterilized room with nothing in it and no happy memories to keep. My hell, and I can’t wait to find Paris, just as soon as I get done with the unneeded responsibility of wasting my time.

I love the world, I love the people, and I love it, so I’m off.

Sometimes, I feel like apologizing for what I write, for the fact that I know it makes no sense, that’s its overdramatic, full of myself, and really, quite pretentious and full of a holier-than-thou air. But, ask yourself, do you really care what I’m doing, or would you rather learn for yourself? Don’t kid yourself, I do nothing for anybody else, and neither do you, but we understand that on a subliminal level that pervades everyone. I don’t ask you to understand me, I don’t ask you to care, I don’t ask you to read, but I do ask you to give me room, and to give yourself the chance. Think your gay for writing your feelings?...Your problem not mine, but I’m not affected, I’ve learned to let it go. I’m not ashamed, but you aren’t either, so stop pretending. Preach, brother, preach.