I finished reading Beautiful Children by Charles Bock, a book that appealed so much perhaps solely because of the lives of the most wretched of its characters. Some twisted glamour in the lives of the damaged, the insane, the strippers and punks having shows in the desert, struggling comic book artists and pathetic lives that seem so far fetched from reality. In the midst of their disturbing nature, there is some strange beauty in it all.
It makes me long for excitement and crave a life as far from what I have as I can imagine. And I can imagine, I’ve fantasized, even. Train hopping and running away and starting a life of hitch hiking and starting with so little and finding out what life has to offer. The taboo and terrible and living in the moment. But those are thoughts that don’t linger so much as all the other possibilities. The glamor and the beauty of the real glamor and beauty of a major city, of wealth and popularity and all those typical things…
I lose what I’m trying to say, except that I am as much drawn to the most terrible of lives as the most successful.
And lately I’ve been realizing more and more the sometimes incredible extent of my sense of morbidity–worst case scenarios not in the way any normal person would expect, not so much “oh it’s not going to be that great” so much as “oh someone probably just died.” It’s difficult to grasp, difficult to articulate.
Yesterday I turned eighteen and I’ve learned no longer to expect anything from birthdays. I can’t decide about anything. I don’t feel the slightest different. There is no sense of finish, no celebratory joy or much of anything. Another day. What seems more ridiculous is that on Sunday I shall be in New York. And it is real, orientation and the city and meeting portions of my future classmates. I need to remember that it won’t all just be the hipsters and artsy kids and intellectuals. Probably a majority won’t be. I think, in my head, it is exactly the life i’ve always envisioned. And everyone will be beautiful and well dressed, with smiles and stories and shared passions and dreams. Unrealistic. But this whole thing is unrealistic, isn’t it? I still marvel at how it ever worked out…
I’m so unsure of how I feel or what I want or what I want to do anymore. Going to work just leaves me drained and feeling empty. And tired. I wanted these early shifts so that I could get home and hang out with my friends, but sometimes that just is the last thing I want to do. I’m feeling ever so tired and that’s getting up at ten…and having to do it tomorrow! And working longer! And friday!
I wish I knew what I tried to say..