On another note
Big Oil sucks unwashed barbarian butt.
I make good money, yeah. But after mortgage payments and gas, I'm half-tempted to mug the derelicts on University Avenue for the change in their paper cups.
Okay, I would never do that, please excuse the hyperbole. It's just that I'm sure most people's apprehension of what life as an attorney is like doesn't include subsisting on instant oatmeal and saltines three days out of four. It's nice to be a homeowner, I guess... but where would be the justice in working seventy hours a week and not being able to afford one? It's nice to have a bed and a roof to go along with the five hours of sleep I get per night.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
We invent things. Karma. Destiny. Fate. Luck. Divine provenance. All to explain the things we can't control, as though the existence of some explanation, any explanation, makes it all easier to bear somehow. It's easier when it's not your fault. It's easier when you don't have to bear the responsibility.
Does it fix things? No. But not everything can be fixed. Sometimes, it seems easier not to care, but when you stop caring, part of you dies, and it's something everyone notices - you, your friends, your family, your enemies, and perhaps worst of all, even the new people you meet. Sometimes, it seems like people unconsciously smell emotional trauma in others. I've forced myself not to care about a lot of people anymore, and I tell myself that it's out of necessity, just pure survival. Part of me dies every time, and I can feel it. Should I be happy, then, that there's still plenty of me left to lose?
When I was twenty, I had hoped the next ten years would be better. In many ways, they have been. Not because any of it got better on its own - because I went out and made it that way. I managed to change everything, except the one thing that pained me the most.
I hope the next ten years will be better still. More than that, I hope I find the wisdom I need to shore up the worst of these wounds, but time has not healed them in the least. Some experiences do not age like fine wine. They sour like the most acid of vinegars, until their sharpness threatens to split the skin from within and pour you out onto the earth, to sink into the ground, lost forever, no more than a poor stain, mixed thick with dust.
What have I done with my life? It's a success by so many measures, isn't it? I have a fine job, with excellent pay. I have my health. I have an education. Maybe two or three educations. I have a few small talents. I have a home. I have friends who think well of me - not just of my accomplishments or my abilities - they think well of my soul. I carry the well-wishes of others with me. Any generosity I have shown in my life has been returned to me twofold. So why the discontent? Would I trade everything I have, for the one thing that I don't?
No. Perhaps not. If I did, I would no longer really be me. And then, in my mind, I would no longer deserve what I want. Then, I could no longer live with myself, which, truth be known, is something I can do. In the end, I would rather be able to live with myself, even if only with unease. I can at least look at myself in the mirror, flaws, scars, and all, and not flinch. I don't think I could have done that ten years ago. It must mean there is hope.
Does it fix things? No. But not everything can be fixed. Sometimes, it seems easier not to care, but when you stop caring, part of you dies, and it's something everyone notices - you, your friends, your family, your enemies, and perhaps worst of all, even the new people you meet. Sometimes, it seems like people unconsciously smell emotional trauma in others. I've forced myself not to care about a lot of people anymore, and I tell myself that it's out of necessity, just pure survival. Part of me dies every time, and I can feel it. Should I be happy, then, that there's still plenty of me left to lose?
When I was twenty, I had hoped the next ten years would be better. In many ways, they have been. Not because any of it got better on its own - because I went out and made it that way. I managed to change everything, except the one thing that pained me the most.
I hope the next ten years will be better still. More than that, I hope I find the wisdom I need to shore up the worst of these wounds, but time has not healed them in the least. Some experiences do not age like fine wine. They sour like the most acid of vinegars, until their sharpness threatens to split the skin from within and pour you out onto the earth, to sink into the ground, lost forever, no more than a poor stain, mixed thick with dust.
What have I done with my life? It's a success by so many measures, isn't it? I have a fine job, with excellent pay. I have my health. I have an education. Maybe two or three educations. I have a few small talents. I have a home. I have friends who think well of me - not just of my accomplishments or my abilities - they think well of my soul. I carry the well-wishes of others with me. Any generosity I have shown in my life has been returned to me twofold. So why the discontent? Would I trade everything I have, for the one thing that I don't?
No. Perhaps not. If I did, I would no longer really be me. And then, in my mind, I would no longer deserve what I want. Then, I could no longer live with myself, which, truth be known, is something I can do. In the end, I would rather be able to live with myself, even if only with unease. I can at least look at myself in the mirror, flaws, scars, and all, and not flinch. I don't think I could have done that ten years ago. It must mean there is hope.
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