| Sep. 20th, 2008 @ 11:12 pm california. |
|---|
I am constantly struck and dazed by the natural beauty of where I am at and the stark contrast of the ugliness emanating from the people inhabiting said beauty. Tree's surround me and embrace me as far as the eye can soar, tree's taller than Goliath's giant. Tree's so ancient and proud that I feel my life, humanity's life, passes in the blink of an eye to them. Fresh, crisp, clean air pumps through my lungs. The ocean is my back yard and I fall asleep to the gliding of waves over sand. When blessed with these amazing products of nature I can't help but feel some sense of serenity.
Yet the everyday struggle still persists. I spent the last week handing in resumes, networking, searching, speaking, selling, copying, driving, gorging, crying, stressing, pleading, revising, scheming, and planning for ways to obtain employment. I, am still, despite more effort than I have ever put into finding a job, jobless. The ticking by of time, of days, of weeks, that used to be such a blessing to me now only brings more apprehension. Two weeks of no work means I have lost at least eight hundred bucks on my journey back to new york. The credit card bills have been getting paid, thankfully, only now instead of owing banks money I owe my poor grandfather money (something I cannot have the option to default on).
I'm constantly struck with the revelation that I should not have ever stayed. This underlined with the fear that I won't ever escape. I try to busy myself with the useless daily tasks of living in a home. I mow the lawn, I vacuum, I do dishes, laundry, I make dinner, I read, most of all I read. I try to loose myself in Henry Miller's Brooklyn escapades which only bring more bouts of homesickness. I identify with Anais' feelings of foreignness in her journals as she just approaches Paris and her childhood roots. I'm also engrossed in Lawrence and The Rainbow, Plexus, and endless hours of The Economist and The NY times which I feel I can never keep up with. I have no real stimulation from outside people, so I am forced to retreat to books and my imagination for sustenance.
The longer I'm away from New York the more I idealize the city. It's ironic that when I was there I loathed the place, I loathed the very idea of a "New Yorker". I fought with all of my spirit to not be consumed by that stereotype. I detested everything it stood for with all my being, or so I thought. Now it feels as though it is the only place I can truly be myself. I dream of the day I can be back in that maelstrom of humanity. It took moving 3000 miles away to realize I am a New Yorker, rather I want to be or not.
Why is it that I am constantly dissatisfied with the present? Why couldn't I appreciate what I had while I had it. I'm always in this state of progression, of evolution, of change. I can't sit in one place long enough to call it home. As soon as I'm content with something, I feel like theirs something better on the horizon. It must be the gemini in me. |
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
bleedingtoaster's journal
contemplative
cheerful
lonely