I was back in New York last week to see, to see how it changed, how I've changed, what came out of the past 15 months.
Not a lot occurred. Some conversations. Lots of walking. Meeting up with a few friends. I realized I lost a lot of angst that fueled my supposed creativity before. But then I also gained a lot. Like a better sense of peace of mind from having context: my place in the blurred reality, my limited ambitions, my choices and how they've brought me to this in-between ledge.
I don't have the burning desire to prove myself to any conception of an ideal self. Friends said I seemed happier. I didn't know what that meant. I guess it meant I've made more decisions, and those choices have brought me to a place where I don't struggle with options so much any more. I'm comfortable with my chosen profession. I'm ecstatic with my partner. Oh sure, there's still a vague perturbation of whether I can measure up – it comes when I hear a really good song, or when I'm walking the streets at night and thoughts about what could be flow. Can I really write something worthwhile? Worthwhile meaning something that accurately reflects my singular condition – singular meaning my normal every day being-ness as a guy nearing the end of his twenties with a normal family and normal friends and normal wishes.
I guess great writing is turning that normal-ness into something palatable, connected, and resonant to what other people are going through. Call it the search for meta, if you will. I still have that -- the need to raise insignificant details of my life into some greater message. Call it a need to explain my surroundings through my myopic and tunnel-visioned perspective. I just go about it in different ways now -- less concerned about how friends and family go about their lives, more concerned with pursuing my selfish road to it's inevitable conclusion.
I'm fond of stories that illustrates this. Two people talking, giving and receiving. How everyone has this deep undercurrent of humanity -- how our modern lives mask it with fun! shows! release!
I whine a lot less now, I guess. But then I feel guilty when talking with friends and we settle into our old habits of dissecting our funny tragedies. Comedy is a short turn away from tragedy – the only difference is in the importance to which we enable our fears, insecurities and hopes. I have a good life. Great friends, an awesome day job and a full lifestyle. Being in New York transported me back to when I and friends hated our jobs, wished to get away – feeling trapped. I always feel a little snobbish talking about how great things are. I can't complain. But strip that away and old friends and I have little to connect on.
But there are serious things to wish for the better. We all have a concept of what happiness should be like, but I just feel like, while things can be a little bit better -- it's not that bad. Sure, I wish for a little more creative inspiration, but I'll gladly exchange that for peace of mind. I could get a little thinner, eat healthier, travel more, have more money, maybe have a car, more friends who are in the same state of mind -- but when it comes down to it, my everyday is more than enough.
I had a good chat with a friend the other night. She told me that I should write more. Write more, otherwise it'll go away and doesn't come back, she says. Write about anything. Complain. Whine. Whatever. I guess that's what been missing as of late. The good stuff in life, like a good meal, makes you complacent. It's always that push-pull. So I guess I'm writing – and still, finding it more difficult than before to express what I want to say. I hate that whatever I write sounds like I'm at a podium. I've lost the knack for details. Details that illustrate the meta. But I figured I need to practice those muscles again.
It's hard to string together sentences, when my current life is embellished with visual and audio technology. Post a photo, upload a video – pictures are worth a thousand words, right? But maybe those thousand words – given the right audience with a different concept of time – matters more.