I'm Full Of Chlorophyll

July 21, 2007 – I’m Full of Chlorophyll

Now that I’m in Chicago my idea of solitude is solidifying more and more with each passing train stop. I’ve been up and down New York and Chicago and of course Los Angeles; perhaps the three most interesting cities in the most important country in the world and I’m still left in search of something I can’t quantify. I’ve found many places inhabitable and I’ve sought shelter and was able to find it with relative ease. But refuge and a place to call home…still yet to be found. And the only thing the spurred this entire entry was that I was talking to Ted and Meghan about whatever this morning. They were talking to me from across the room, their bodies in front of the windows with only their silhouettes distinguishing one from the other. And it was a weird revelation and a great analogy as to how I see myself in relation to the world -- it’s the same existence and the same exchange but it’s much different in terms of perspective. One party sees people in striking detail – their textures and colors and what not. However, the other party really doesn’t know anything more than the basic shape and surface of the other. Same existence, different understanding. And the more I think and the more I write the further I perpetuate myself into this enigmatic status. I’m digging myself a hole with my words.

I am seeking comfort and solace. But in reality, I’ve abandoned all of it for the sake of clarity. And looking back three years when I made that decision I can say that I’ve learned a lot about the world and life and myself, certainly. And I can’t really say I regret it; of course I don’t. Imagine if I were still with M_____, what kind of miserable life would that have been? Imagine if I were still with D_____, even still I think it’d be miserable and boring.

But I don’t know. I think it’s tough and difficult. Clarity is such an endless pursuit because even if you do see the forest through the trees; if the brush clears, then what? Eventually your eyes will make it through to the desert, then the tundra and frozen landscape. It’s infinite. It doesn’t end. My hand is on a calculator, and I’m frantically entering 1 + 1 =, =, =. And even with the exponential growth of it; with me typing in 1 x 10, =, =, =. It helps me gather more information and develop a better understanding of the intangible, but damn me and my pursuit for something that can never be captured. What the fuck did I get myself into?

Happiness, on the other hand, something very fucking hard to obtain, but at the same time available to all. That’s what I love about it, I guess. There’s no price affixed to it, it may cost the smile of a stranger in passing, it may even cost the price of a huge ol’ yacht or whatever. It’s wonderful and torturous at the same time and it’s a damn hard thing to obtain; it’s not a journey, it’s a fucking accomplishment, you’ve slain the dragon. Happiness is great and I love it and I feel it going through my veins but I’m not it as much/often as people may believe. It’s warm and fuzzy, but then it does breed content and complacency. Or maybe I should flip it; I’m not content. Happiness is something I don’t necessarily seek as much as I do necessarily long for it.

I’m not sure what the answer is, really. I fanatically observe the behavior, values and actions of people who I think are happy. Being the cynical person that I am, I’m still hanging on to this notion that all happy people are really just sad folks wearing great poker faces. But you know, the old folks that smile at you, there’s a lot to be learned from that mere act, alone. I don’t know what the lesson is, but fuck I want to know what it was that got them to work all those facial muscles with such natural ease to make them smile. And in comparison, what it was that brings the grumpiness out of the older men. Maybe a lifetime of suppression and emotional restraint? Maybe complacency? Either way, in life one experiences an enormous amount of turbulence and ups and downs and in betweens, but they end up in opposite ends of the spectrum. Surely, it must be more chaotic and way more complex than just a roll of the dice.

But not being content with what you have definitely sucks, too. Maybe I should just accept the imperfections of the world and what’s wrong with life and what can’t be fixed and just say, “fuck it.” Maybe if I released my grip, happiness will fall into the palms of my hands the way autumn leaves fall when there is no more chlorophyll to nourish the tree it came from. But fuck! I’m burdened with this clarity thing, and I’m being held captive by my own unrealistic belief that I can still change the world and make just a world that isn’t just. Happiness is nothing more than a knot in the rope of clarity; but when you’re climbing vertically up that motherfucker, that slight pause can certainly be a welcome relief.

I try to free my mind and it flies like a poorly folded paper airplane; bursting into confetti that falls onto the shoulders of the masses, celebrating joyously with no clue to the tragedy that took place just moments before.

But again, realism never fazed me and I’m full of chlorophyll. And I guess until the tree that is my world dwindles or gets chopped down I’m going to keep on trying to fucking be relevant to it.