I hate the feeling of not really living. You know the feeling. It happens when you begin reflecting on your life, your existence. You ask yourself those questions that only you can answer. What am I doing with my life? Am I happy? Why am I here? Where am I going? Am I alright with that? Why am I not doing more? Being more?

On one hand I find myself thinking how terrible it is that I have these thoughts. On the other, how wonderful. I and I alone can answer these questions. No one else. They don’t need to float along indeterminately. I can solidify them into whatever I see fit.

You wanna know what pisses me off? That I don’t write more. Not just write, but that I don’t share more. I have so many thoughts I need to get out at any given moment. Thoughts on the uniformity of experience. The quaint nature of maturing. What it’s like to watch people make mistakes, and let them make mistakes, knowing that’s the only way they’ll learn. And figuring out ways to not resent them for it. I wanted to write about the fact that everyone thinks they’re thinking is the most exact, their conclusions generally the most sound, like they are some how blessed with insight and knowledge and reasoning that allows them to transcend conclusions attributed to the ‘petty’ masses (I sure hope I don’t do this. Hm. Who am I kidding. I’m all too human.).

I wanted to write about the fact that there are always ‘others’, but that these are people too. Now, what the hell do I mean by ‘others’? They are the people you can’t or don’t identify with. They are the object to your subject; disconnected from the humanity you possess. They are revered or resented. They are the end and butt of all your jokes, criticisms, affections, reverence, etc. The ‘others’ are the awkward or mean or defiant or kind or caring people in the world that are somehow more or less intelligent, or something ‘other’ than you. Somehow on a level that is distinctly different from yours. I’m not sure I fully articulated what I mean. No matter. The point is is that this conception is really just bullshit. There is no ‘other’.

I was observing a family visiting the university today. I did a quick assessment from observations and began thinking of a possible scenario. Never mind if it’s true. It could be true.

Suppose: Some parents were crude, uneducated,  poor, uncultured, unfashionable and the like. They had a son who was extremely bright and intelligent. This family had a respect for one another. Their conversations and points were genuine and always considered and heeded. Their son soon enrolls as a student and becomes enculterated with the university life and begins to adopt some customs and conventions that allow him to socially function. One day you sit next to him in class. When he talks you have a deep respect for him. He is articulate and smart and seems to be put together. You revere him in a certain regard. Say you walk on the street and you see a family. The same crude family. You make hasty judgments about them: who they are, what they know, their capacities and capabilities. They are the “others”.

What I find amazing is that the son and parents can function with such respect for each other, and that that respect is not there when we pass superficial judgments on people we have trouble identifying with. We have no problem passing respect to the son, but we’d never infer that he was cast from the same mold as the crude, uneducated family.

Does this make sense?

I suppose I find it interesting when people talk about others in higher or lower regards. They are people. Someones son, mom, bro, daughter, niece, employee, best friend, colleague, etc. “He’s a loser.” to one person is to someone else “He’s the smartest guy I know.” Or “She’s a bitch” is to someone else “She was my first friend.”


I find people hilarious. Especially the naive. They teach me about myself better than anyone else. I watch their actions and could almost cast bets on the outcomes. They haven’t a clue. I could talk about what’s at hand, wave it in their face, and they wouldn’t have a clue to the mechanisms at work. They have their appealing myths, their comforting delusions.  They would attribute it to their own ratiocinations, or other causes that could be explained with their endless reservoir of knowledge and experience. Psh.

Anyway. Bed.