meaning?

I do not know at what point in my life that I became so disinterested with things around me, but it's happened, it's here right now, and I am just starting to note this ambivalence.

Not to say that I was the most outgoing person in the past, but I definitely made more of an effort to be outgoing. I guess you could attribute this to my high school record. I would have to go be proactive, simply because I was working towards getting into an elite college. But even if I had gotten into the places I wanted to, I think I'd be in the same position of stagnating wherever I'd end up.

I like to keep my head up and believe that once I truly pierce the subject matter of my study, that I will be truly, deeply engaged in my learning. The classes I'm taking so far for my major, I do enjoy. At times, my English classes do feel like high school again, in that I'm arguing subjectivity. The better dressed I can make my argument, with words and metaphors and what have you, the better I'll do. I do like to explore themes within the novel, or the reason why this person is using this particular form of poetry, but I would also like to learn how this is important to anyone besides me.

Doctors read books on how to save lives, and I'm reading books to analyze imaginary people. Huh?

I've been listening to a lot of underground hip-hop lately. Time for a name drop!
Freddie Joachim!


Kero One!


Choice37!


Green Tea!


I bump these all the time when I work at zot zone, our university's local arcade... rest area. Thing. What was I going on about though. Right, underground hip-hop! In the same sense that commercialized music is bad for people, I think that underground music ia absolutely awful for my mental health. Every time I bump it I notice the passion laced in the beats, this artistic integrity embedded in the lines of these emcees. They are acknowledging that they will probably never be a hip-hop headliner, a candidate for G.O.A.T, and yet they still strive forward, believing in the power of their lyrics. They're happy. They're making meaning out of their lives.

So I think that definitely exacerbates this feeling of stagnation that I've been feeling lately. I don't really know what I want to do. Before I came into college I thought I wanted to become a writer. Don't get me wrong, I still do. I want to create stories that touch people. Nothing more than that. I don't want to be a Tolstoy or a Kafka, inspiring social revolution. I understand that I do not possess the literary genius for that kind of writing. Nor do I want to be a Hemingway or a Dickens, reshaping the literary landscape as we know it. I don't think I can do anything that great. It seems that the breadth of my talent is simply to tell of the stories that I conjure in my head.

Planes that fall out of the sky like raindrops. The pursuit of childhood heroes after they disappear from the face of the Earth. Spoken word smiths hooking up with a beat technician, a daughter of bigwig Korean business titans. These are three scenarios I have written so far for my beginning fiction class. The ideas themselves are novel and entertaining. But I recognize that these are far from perfect stories, and I know that there are people that can write far, far better than I can. I've read two stories from other people in this class so far and I know that they haven't written before. But as I climb higher and higher, instead of feeling somewhat superior I will start to recognize an inherent inability to turn a phrase better or pace an event better than an actual genius.

I know that everyone has their own special story to tell, but I also recognize the fact that some stories are meant to turn pages, while other stories are meant to upheave entire societal standards.

If anything though, at least my classes have taught me one thing: to stop erasing words that I think are potentially embarrassing. I have to be able to write how I feel, and if I keep looking back at everything I'm writing, editing out snippets to sound prettier, taking out whole chunks to sound like a nice guy, then I'm essentially lying to myself. This stream of conscience thing, this committal of my mind to the page, is the realest writing that I've done in a while, and I'm happy with it.

But just because I'm happy with it doesn't mean I'm satisfied with it. I'm still looking for a way to substantiate these words, make them meaningful somehow. Is it enough that they mean something for me? I don't think so. I don't know if it's because I'm too empathetic, or if it's because I have an overwhelming inferiority complex (signs point to the latter though). I have a driving need to prove myself to everyone around me. To say that hey, everything I'm doing right now IS worth my time. One of the only reasons that I've been able to pursue a career in English for so long, despite the fact that I recognize its fallacies in reality, is because it's helpful to other people. I'm serious. In pursuit of my passion, I inspired other people to follow theirs' as well.

Where do we find meaning in our lives, that thing that makes us want to wake up in the day, that pushes us forward? I keep trying to find it in other people. I think a large part of me wants to discover what love is because I want a sense of usefulness in my life. Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering what would happen if I suddenly died. I realize that people will be sad, sure. But will they be at a loss? With me gone, will their lives suddenly stop as well? No, they won't. And sure, you can attribute that adjustment to loss to the resiliency of the human soul, but I am much more of a pessimist. I believe that the role I serve in other peoples' lives can easily be fulfilled by whoever's next in line.

So for that reason, I want to discover love. To have someone depend on me would give me some sort of direction, and I know that's really messed up and really, really twisted. In fact, it's an awful way to approach a relationship. But a naive part of me still holds onto this sentiment, a part of me that refuses to grow up. The same little kid that tries to justify his ambivalence to a lack of interest in things that are meaningless to him. It's a very, very selfish thing.

I need to prioritize and try again, for real this time. But sometimes I find myself asking, "where the heck do I even start?"

I keep trying to look ahead. That answer will be saved for next quarter, when I enroll in intermediate fiction and a tutoring program.

(here's hoping, keep your head up to the future)

Soulution ft El Gambina.

Just live a new life everyday. Try to smile like you just got paid. When it gets hard close your eyes and pray.