Alone

Tonight.

The air is thin. The window lies open to let the last few rays of blue strike through the untinted window and pierce the dimly lit room. The carpet is dirty with speckles of food and crumbs. I haven't vacuumed since I came here. Above me, a wooden poster is nailed to a cork board background on my desk. "KEEK CALM AND CARRY ON."  My phone plays an instrumental track I'm not familiar with; but that's the essence of radio. 8:31 in large red letters. The small clock to my right reminds me of the slog of time that drudges onward, onward. 

I have had no human contact in 75 minutes. 

My lamp begins to outshine the last vestiges of light cracking through the window. The azure sky is gradually deepening as it swallowing the last golden line of the horizon. Darkness encroaches.

79 minutes.

It is very solemn here. The folds of silence are briefly interrupted by the hiss of traffic shooting down the next street over, and the dim trills of the piano over the radio.  I'd rather listen to something else, so I turn on Gerry Mulligan's In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning. The internet cuts off momentarily before it plays.  This is better.

Every night a night like this before. Dimmed lights. Music playing. Myself. I don't mind the ritual. The tension of the day's exercises smooths itself and dissipates like a mound of unformed clay being molded down into a single, circular disc. A plate for holding something, I'm not quite sure what. The night is flat and even. Nothing punctures the tranquility. Nothing deviates from its place. Every night, the same ritual. Smooth, familiar, felt.

88 minutes.

Nobody is here but me. But I have many people here with me.

90 minutes.

If I stretch out a piece of my mind will my thoughts reach to the other side of the street? Can I communicate with the man sitting out by his car looking off into the distance, or nothing in particular? A tendril of thought creeps out to meet him. Hello, friend. Why so glum? As if on cue, he moves to go in. The door to our building opens and shuts. No one left.

93 minutes.

It is completely dark.

Suddenly, my door opens.  In steps two familiar figures. My friends, L and C have dropped by a visit.  They move to my desk to greet me. Their shadows throw themselves against the wall, spawned by the glow of my desk lamp...

10:43

Arurian Dance plays on the speakers. The lamp is dim. L is gone, C has followed. The room returns to being a contained space for myself. A silent planet inhabited by one. But the previous pressure no longer emanates from the curvature of the walls that previously pressed towards me. The window is open again and the stale air drifts in. It's musty and dank. The cars glide along the road across from me, one by one. The traffic is inconsistent but unremitting. Somehow, there feels more life in the mobile hums of passing vehicles. The weight has lessened.

The moon has stayed in for the night. 

8 minutes.

Dreams I

Last night, I dreamed that I awoke covered in tattoos.

My chest contained a statue of an old man towering over my abdomen, holding a cane to the sky. His figure was neither heroic nor impressive. He slumped under the weight of age and mass, his knees bending in the same fashion as the crook in his back. He was a mossy green sculpture with diamonds tattooed onto his legs. His eyes were cast towards the horizon, his cane cast towards the sky. He stood rusted like a ceremonial figurine long-forgotten by time.

Painted across my right bicep were swaths of red and golden yellow in wavering trigonal patterns. Few of the edges were straight, but the colors never mixed. They formed across my shoulders in a blaze before mixing into an azure hue. All three colors sunk down my left arm in thin tendrils until they reached my forearm.

And across my back hung an albatross with wings spread downward. My memory of its form wavers somewhat here. His head jutted out from a flesh and bone body into a skeletal construction without flesh.  Feathers were neatly tucked into the folds of it's submissive form. It's head craned upward to meet a thin piece of twine that attached it's neck to mine in a noose.

When I awoke, I checked my bodies for the tattoos. The dreams were so vidid, I had trouble separating reality from fictional visions for the brief window I remembered both. I've forgotten every other aspect of that dream, but I remember every square inch of my body through those images.

Our brains conjure strange things.

On A Coasting Decline Into The Fortress of Solitude.

It starts with a withdrawal.

The world is still bright and loud, yet somehow the dimness in our perception overshadows the noises like a filter.  We wish for a quiet hush that would blanket the wild cacophony of screeches and voices on the outside.  The world is still bright and loud, and yet we envy the silence. Just for a few hours, maybe a few minutes.

Being introverted means that most social interaction, rather than a catalyst for conversation, is a syphoning drain on our stamina.  Extroverts gain energy from social interactions, introverts lose energy.  This is not to say that introverts comprise the basement-dwelling breed of reclusive human population.  Adventurous human beings come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities.  We can run on different batteries, but Introverts run on a shorter charge.

The moment when my battery dies is followed by a rapid onset of withdrawals from my surroundings.  It's less of a sudden snapping, but more like a coasting decline into my fortress of solitude. I wish I had a picture that could portray that sentence with justice.  The point is that being introverted means that, inevitably, there will be times when I feel like totally disconnecting from my surroundings. It's in the dampened tone of voice, the sullen change in demeanor, the slight alteration in gait that's just a bit too mechanical to feel natural. It's like sending the mind for a nature walk while the body just goes on auto-pilot.

Sometimes these periods of withdrawal are followed by intense bouts with existential questions of faith or identity. All energies focus inwardly. The brain becomes a labyrinth. Countless projections light up, the brain still highly, highly functioning, but the cogwork churns and churns without hints of external debris. Mental gymnastics stymy tides of social interaction. Fireworks blaze, flaring synapses within our skull.  Poetically speaking, we are finely-tuned computers living inside a shell called the head.

The problem with living inside your head is that people can still read your face.

"Soooo... Why you so mad today?"

"Um, well, I'm not."

"You look mad."

"I'm not. I'm contemplating things."

"Strange. Your contemplative face looks like your murder face."

I suppose the introspective moments of my life must look like this on the outside:

(ಠ_ಠ)

Lo, the text anatomy of a psycho-killer. Or a quiet, solitary wallflower.

The extreme introspection that follows such withdrawn moments lend other people to misjudge the emotional cocktail brewing within their soft-spoken contemporaries.  Compounding the problem is the fact that many introspective people are seemingly extroverted in nature when they go out into the world. They can be charming, charismatic, highly friendly, even loud, but the needs of their personality still dictates when they need to recover. For some, it's sitting with a tub of ice cream watching a movie. Reading a book. Listening to music alone. Playing a video game.  Everyone needs a break from life at some point.

For myself, I believe it functions as a coping mechanism. Social interactions can hold some degree of anxiety or tension for people that naturally adhere to solitary habits. My day job requires a great deal of interactions with strangers. For the most part, it's easy to put on a smile and tread through the day, greeting faces that'll likely never remember me again. But once the day is over, all that interaction wears thin on the thread of my sanity (dramatic phrasing is a sledgehammer). I need something to calm myself down, so I come home, spend an hour or two listening to music, surfing the internet, reading, or writing something like this. It's cathartic, relaxing and gears me up for whatever comes later.

I'm not sure just how many suffer from such abrupt withdrawals. Mine can come off abrasively if I don't guard myself in contact with other people. So whenever I recognize the need to go through one, I do my best to pull myself inward without leaving the front door open for all to see. I haven't discussed this process or "coping mechanism" with anyone else that undergoes a similar process, so hopefully somebody that reads this will have some idea what I'm talking about. Or a friend or relative of someone can relate.

Or maybe I'm the only one that does this and I'm just crazy for a wallflower.

So A Man Is Walking Down A Road...

...When he experiences a personal epiphany.  In a moment of sudden clarity, the universe makes sense.  Wow.  This is an intense moment.  He knows exactly what his goals are, he plots the means by which to achieve them, and he begins putting into motion his glorious new plans of redemption and locomotion towards a bright and prosperous future.

The next morning he rolls over in his bed and starts the cycle all over again.

A Raindrop’s State of Mind

            A raindrop doesn’t have long to live, and its purpose is seemingly mundane. Their very existence serves one function; to provide and improve life on the planet below.  It can be a boring job without much flair, but it is an essential job nonetheless.  Some journeys last longer than others, but in the end what is there to show for it?  A single spot of moisture, remembered for an instant before its memory is dried up and swept away with time.

            What makes a raindrop different?  It is the size or shape, the slight chemical variation, or where it lands?  There is very little difference one raindrop can make.  A splash or two won’t change the sea, and a raindrop will certainly never be capable of more than a splash.

            Sadly, people are continuously captivated in a raindrop’s state of mind.

            This way of thinking, in particular, dominates artists, writers, and workers turning the corporate cog.  Of course, everybody would like to “make a difference” so to speak, but artists and writers suffer the terrible fate of obscurity.  The percentage of people who become household names in these professions is astronomically small.  The corporate man, on the other hand, suffers obscurity in a wholly different way.  He’s not alone in his insignificance; he’s joined directly alongside millions of people who spend their lives turning the wheel for their company commanders.  Perhaps their fate is worse than artists and writers.  The artist makes or breaks his fame on his own time, but the corporate worker is playing dice with his career advancement.  Some may climb the ladder, but most others just end up serving as a rung on it.

            It’s in the dark crevices of obscurity and obsolescence that people began to ask their existential questions – also referred to as the “midlife crisis” of middle-aged men.  They suddenly realize how much sand in their hourglass has run through as they step back and think, “Huh.  And what have I done with this time?   

It’s not a sense of defeat that overwhelms them; it’s a sense of pointlessness.  Why do I matter?  What can I do?  Am I really changing things for the better?

Am I just wasting my time?

This undying question is a life-changer.  If no one admires our work, did it really ever exist?  We thrive on the sense of satisfaction.  It comes from ourselves, but it must also be obtained through others.  We want to be admired, respected, appreciated for our work.  If what we’re doing doesn’t bring satisfaction or make a difference, then we question whether we’re just wasting our time or not.  It’s an eternal loop filled with the doubt that we’re fulfilling our potential and the fear that we’ll fail to succeed at anything else.

This is as much a matter of perspective as it is a matter of relevancy.  People very often judge “success” another way – economically.  The artist sells paintings, the writer sells books, the corporate man turns the cog, and they all do it for money.  This does not mean they do not strive for recognition, fame, and/or personal satisfaction.  Those are very important too, but neither of them pays the bills.

In the end, success often becomes seen as a matter of work effort versus cash acquired. 

If you are thinking this away, you need to stop.

            Success is not solely a measure of financial gain.  But success isn’t just about fame, either.  It’s not about the multitude of people that read your work, the amount of money you rake in, or the number of autographs you sign or the newspapers you appear in.  Those are all worthwhile things to achieve, but the true means of success should be something that is judged against you.  Are YOU doing what YOU want to do with YOUR life?  And along the way, who are you impacting?  Is that change for the better?  The answer to all of the above questions would benefit you to be yes.  Yes, I’m living my life the way that brings joy to me.  I’m supporting myself, and maybe a family, and creating an impact that sustains and benefits other, through my actions or through my work.  I’m making a difference, even if it’s only to myself and those around me.

People fret about money throughout their entire life.  They work themselves to the bone over something that becomes little more use to them than a pillow when they die.  If not that, people fret that they’ll never become earth-movers and world-shakers.  Not everybody is meant to be one.  Influence is not measured in fame and money.  The smallest action can be nothing at all to six billion people and change the six billionth and one’s entire universe.  Miracles more often work in individuals than crowds. Influence and wealth are valuable things, but people can become swallowed in the pursuit of it, or overwhelmed when they feel they can’t produce enough.  Feelings of under appreciation soon follow, as they lose sight of what’s important in life.  Do you have a family?  Are you part of one?  What is your influence to them?  It’s surely not the same as appearing on national television, or winning the lottery, but what you do surely affects them.  It’s still important, and frankly, the influence you have on your family is some of the most important you can have.

Ultimately, people become trapped in the raindrop’s state of mind because they feel they lack something.  Be it recognition, money, glory, or satisfaction, the average worker becomes consumed in desperation to make his mark, to be different.  And along the way, they forget two things.

1)      Whatever you do for a living should bring enjoyment to you.  A life in servitude to something one detests is automatically a life of misery.

2)      Impact begins at home.  It is not a measure of publicity, but a measure of influence on those around you.  A local doctor in the late 1880’s certainly wasn’t world-renowned, but to the people in his town that he saved, he was a world-changer.  Don’t lose sight of that.  You mean more to the people around you than you think.  Influence is silent, but always felt.

            The raindrop doesn’t make much of a difference on a global scale.  People may not pay much for it individually, but it still exists for a reason.  Sometimes people forget the worth of a single raindrop. In the end, it’s not the size of the splash that makes a difference.  It’s the ripples felt afterwards that change the pond.

Life and Refraction in Physical Attraction

            Again and again, this world has told us that we are not enough, that we are not good looking or intelligent or talented enough. Somewhere along the line, we bought into those lies, and we pay for it every day. Today, we should try to sell a different story—to the girls who think they’re not perfect enough, to the guys who only want perfection, and yes, even to ourselves.

           

            These words come from a close friend of mine.  He’s speaking about society’s detrimental obsession with physical flawlessness.  Perfection, perfection, perfection.  Or so the story goes.

            The lens of perception change drastically based on physical appearance.  It’s true, and it’s not necessarily something that warrants guilt.  The mind works faster than we can detect.  Before the realization strikes of what you’ve done, your brain has compiled a database of information based on the snap judgment you’ve made in two seconds of observation.

            Thus, it’s almost fitting that we stroke our egos to the point of obsession when it comes to our corporal forms.  Or maybe it’s not even ego, but the extreme lack of it.  People are so afraid that they will go through great lengths to deceive the eye on physical evidence, rather than the more vital aspects of interior condition.

            The world has not been too accommodating in stalling this corrosive state of mind – in fact, it’s urging it on.  Turn on the TV, flip through the channels, and within minutes your retinas will be showered in the neon glow of several gorgeous (and often times scantily clad) women, thrusting themselves whichever way they need in order to manipulate your emotions into buying whatever they’re selling.  With metric tons of makeup, acute photoshop skills, and perfect lighting adjustments, anybody can take their place in the ensemble of perfectly primped models waiting to grab your attention.  Sex is the CEO of corporate American advertising, and she’s not likely to abdicate her throne any time soon.

            But the issue lies deeper than economical policies. People are always trying to sell something with their appearance – whether it’s a nice shampoo or the image of self-confidence, the way people present themselves is a statement about who they are and how they think.  The biker man with chains around his belt and teardrop tattoos?  He’s probably not aspiring to be a world class ballet dancer.  And the preppy kid with turtleneck sweaters and classy wristwatches likely won’t sing for the next AC/DC.  How people dress and look is an introductory statement about themselves.  “Hi, I’m Brennan, and this is or isn’t what I am…”

            People with even the most basic of social skills know the importance of a good first impression.  So many people – particular those of the fairer sex – have gone the extra mile or ten to enhance their first impressions.  The problem is, the issue has been taken overboard.

            Image has become an obsession in American culture.  Trends and fads come and go, but the overall objective, to look and feel perfect, is here to stay.  The reasons are fairly simple.  One of them is that looking good simply feels good.  And who wouldn’t want to feel good? 

While there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to feel beautiful, the trappings of physical obsessions have perpetrated a pitfall.  There’s a competition factor involved, and it’s not possible to opt out of it.  To look good, people feel like they have to compete – and this especially applies for women.  The world is constantly bombarding them with the message that to feel hip, stylish, and beautiful, you have to be hip, stylish and beautiful.  And apparently, these things can only be acquired with a size 0 waistline, a nosejob, and some trendy clothing

            Sure, you can try not to compete if you want.  But unless you maintain absolute security in yourself, it’s easy for feelings of inadequacy, judgment, and comparison to creep in.  It’s hard enough to feel comfortable in our own skin.  Throw in the crushing weight of the world’s rebuttals, and it’s difficult to not take it with some strain.

            And so people change.  They take who they are and put on a disguise and an act in order to feel like they belong.  The radiance they naturally exude is refracted through their disguise.  Maybe the refraction doesn’t seem that bad to those on the outside, but the person on the inside is still hurt because they know, deep down inside, that this isn’t really them.  They aren’t getting the attention they so desperately seek.  It’s the disguise. The act. The tight shirt they wear. Or the persona they put on.  Inside, they’re still being tormented because they still don’t fit in.  It’s only the act that gets them through.

            Humanity is prone to the torrid emotions of pride, insecurity, lust, and rejection.  The proper image can build up stone walls that hide these demons from others, but it will never truly dispel them.  If we pretend we feel good, maybe, just maybe that will push the demons away for just a bit longer.  I don’t see any end in sight for this kind of strategy.  I think there’s a clear middle ground.  There’s no shame in the enhancement of attractiveness.  (Trust me. The guys don’t mind.)  But it becomes an unhealthy endeavor if focused on too much; instead of letting oneself sculpt his/her own looks, the way one allows themselves to look sculpts them.  It all goes back to two things: the feel-good industry, with their focus on self-building, and the wanting to fit in and escape from insecurity.  Image should be an enhancer.  But instead of judging in conjunction, we judge directly on it.  And that’s not how it needs to be.

Instead of covering up whatever demons you have, or drowning yourself in a caricature that tries to look good, try spilling some light on these things instead.  Acquire the courage to feel comfortable with yourself, no matter how you look.  There’s no sin in looking beautiful.  There’s no shame in being attractive.  And there’s certainly no wrong in searching for splendor.  But in the pursuit of these things, it can be easy task to lose ourselves in them.

            And as always, remember that outside appearances do little to reflect what’s on the inside, where true beauty lies.

The Fear of Rejection (Scaling Mt. Acceptance)

            Rejection is a hard pill to swallow.  And to the soul of a human being that craves attention and approval nearly as much as food, it's a hard lesson in life that everyone is set to experience at some point or another.

            There are different kinds of rejections.  I’m sure everybody wanted to be part of the cool crowd at some point.  If you didn’t, then you were probably already there.  The rest of us, though, had to put up with the constant feeling of inadequacy that comes with being tragically un-hip.  Sometimes if we’re lucky the cool crowd ends up liking something that is universally frowned upon two decades later.  So when I’m old, maybe I’ll have the pleasure of looking at pictures of you from back in the yesteryears when you dressed like a fool following silly cultural trends.  Maybe I’ll get lucky that way; maybe I won’t.

            But then there’s the personal rejection, when it’s not a crowd of people that collectively heap their dismissal on us, but just the one.  For some reason I haven’t yet figured out, that one person’s rebuff can be more painful than all the cool crowds in the world.  I think maybe it’s the more intimate nature of the situation.  It’s not a hive mind of people who adhere to a shrine of social and commercial trendiness that rejects you – it’s just that one person.  One person that rejects you and everything you are.  It sends us a message that we aren’t good enough.  That something’s wrong.  But many times, I don’t think that’s the reason at all.

When we feel ourselves coming under even the hint of attack or rejection, there are two common reactions, and they typically follow in this order: the knee-jerk defensive, which is to immediately throw up our guards at whatever slanderous attacks we observe (or make up) approaching our way.  We aren’t the problem; they are. And then there’s the pity-stop, which occurs when we halt our universe at the stroke of a negative word to sufficiently weep for our perceived inadequacies.  Oh, Woe is me!

            Defending is, among the two responses to criticism, often the first to appear.  Nobody likes to feel attacked, and so we curl up into a little ball to shut out the world.  Or worse: we go on the offensive and attempt to paint a target on our so-called assailants.  Rejection breeds contempt.  Contempt breeds anger.  Anger breeds revenge.  And in the end, everyone turns out miserable.  Sound like fun?  It’s not, but we still participate anyway.

            The pity-stop is probably the most common temperament in people.  It’s also the quietest.  So quiet, in fact, that we may not even know it’s there.  It sits deep inside a hollow part of our soul and ferments.  Everything we do, and everything we don’t do, becomes judged against this invisible standard that has been set beyond what we can obtain by an ever-growing pile of rejections.  What we wear, what we do, and what we are becomes a mold we change in order to fit an ever-changing caricature.  We all try to climb Mt. Acceptance.  The select few that do are champions, it seems.  Standing so close to the sun causes rays of celestial light to shine down and envelop the champions in luminescent, attractive beams.  The rest of us are stuck chilling at the bottom, cold, rather lonely, and dejected at our failure to reach the golden zenith, as well as at our new found inferiority to those at the peak.  We’d give anything to be the champions.  If just for one moment.  We’d like to experience that popularity, but when we don’t reach the top, we lapse into depression and dejection over the mental roadblock that we just aren’t good enough to be there.

            But you are good enough.  At least, to the eyes of those who matter.  It took me years to realize this, but there’s not much point in conforming to the cool crowd.  In certain extremes, yes, you do need to conform.  Walking without clothes on will provide you with little to no influence on society (and at most, scant news coverage).  But the years we spend trying to be cool are wasted.  The social status we work so hard to achieve is based on an image that dissipates the second someone finds a crack in it.  Why have we, as a people, turned each other into a society of smoke and mirrors?

            It is not only rejection, but the fear of rejection that holds us back in immeasurable ways.  Sometimes it’s the fear of being embarrassed.  The queasy thought that we’ll do something and be degraded for our stupidity.  Sometimes it’s an obsessive want for social acceptance.  Attention is everything.  Other times it’s conflicting emotions with the opposite gender.  Whatever the reason, when I’m in public, I always feel like I’m partially enclosed in a fence.  Certain areas of me want to step outside my invisible boundaries, but ta-ta, that could encompass the risk of committing one of the aforementioned activates (embarrassment, stupidity, nonconformity) which would make me *gasp* a social dissenter!

            Note that by the term “social dissenter” I am not referring to robbing a bank, committing murder, or a host of other things that our legal system frowns upon (as should you).  I’m talking about the pressure to conform to a certain set of values, activities, or false pretenses in an effort to achieve likability.  Those who are social dissenters do not fall for this pressure.  But unfortunately, most of us do.  It’s not that we don’t try. A lot of times we want to be “ourself”, but quickly decide that “ourself” isn’t quite earning us appropriate popularity or acceptance.  So we change ourself to meet the wants of others. 

            Yet I don’t want to live for the wants of others.  I want to live as who I am.  I want to be my own identity, not a caricature.  I don’t want to be cool.  I don’t want to be in the cool crowd.  I just want to be myself.       

            But sometimes people don’t want myself.  And in that case, when the sting of rejection comes to remind me of my failings, how do I handle it?

            Shrug it off.  Insofar that I can tell, that’s the only way to sufficiently cope.  It’s necessary to come to terms with the fact that, hey, we’re going to acquire some hate over our lifetime.  People will come and go, and several will find flaws and weaknesses in you and pick them out, many times out of the selfish need for an ego-boost.  But ignore the slings and arrows.  You are who you are.  There’s always room for improvement, but the measure for it should be weighed against your own standards, not someone else’s.

As far as changing who I am to fit the cool crowd, I don’t much care to live as a fake.  Nor do I have much patience for those that do.  I’m tired of climbing Mount Acceptance when all there is at the top is a congratulatory message saying:

“Congratulations!  Everyone now likes you for who you’re not."

            We’ll all experience the fear of rejection throughout our lives.  Fittingly enough, we’ll also experience rejection.  But in the end, I think it’s a good thing.  Surely there’s an importance for being liked for who you are.  But I find the issue of handling yourself with those who don’t all the more significant for personal growth.

        “To be, or not to be: that is the question:

        Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

        The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

        Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

        And by opposing end them?”

        --William Shakespeare, in Hamlet (Act III, Scene I)