Most of my time I spend musing about abstract realities I can escape in, little dilemmas and conflicts I can devote time to reconciling.
This is how I remain preoccupied.
After my ex, I dated, as usual. But this time I decided not to waste my time. I would be myself, and nothing less, as best as I could.
This is a challenging task if you don’t have a sense of self, as I do, when you don’t have a stable center, when you can be anything to anyone, and the unconscious drives me to emulate the reflection of another.
But after the rupture with my ex, I decided to commit to this end, no matter how lonely and uncomfortable. I will not compromise my boundaries, and boundaries define my sense of self, and the value of that self. I cannot depend on others to figure out those boundaries, and I can’t select people I know that don’t mesh with the values I strive to possess.
So I dated.
And I met a 19 year year old. She’s an amazing soul. A damaged soul, but with profound perspective and wisdom. I can’t even get into her trauma and the life she’s lived, but I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with the trauma she’s endured. I don’t know how you recover, but she has, and relatively well. The lifetime of therapy has helped, and having highly educated foster parents certainly served her well for the eight years she lived with them.
So this girl and I dated for two months. I wanted our relationship to consist of more than sex. I wanted to encourage her to live up to the potential she carried within her. And so, I tried to be a voice of reason, of wisdom.
But she was emotionally invested in another guy, who is, by all objective accounts, a loser. Who treated her poorly, and had nothing going for himself. But she was enamored. So I knew this wasn’t a long term situation.
I continued dating, frugally. And met my current girlfriend, who is a very accomplished… artist? For lack of a better word, without being outright specific. With her, I decided to be my full self, to the best of my ability, and to my delight, she liked me.
I would say it was love at first sight, but I’d be wrong. It was lust. We’re developing the love. Things moved very quickly, and we’ve been together for two months now. I spend about 4 days a week at her place in the city. Her schedule is very busy, and I work in Palo Alto.
I work from 9 until 5, give or take, then head to the gym, on most days. I come home, shower, and drive to see my girl. She doesn’t have a TV, or much else in her little studio. But we talk, and cook, and I read while she works on her projects.
What is life?
Most days my mental energy is divided into three parts: the big questions of life, the business, and my romantic life.
Whenever I’m not thinking of work, my mental and emotional energy is spent day dreaming, reflecting, contemplating… big questions. I hold these concepts in my mind, and let them marinate and meld. I let my brain do the work, by simply holding them together.
If I have a problem, I hold it up in my mind, like a gemologist inspecting a ruby in the sun, letting the rays of intellect reflect and refract off the gem, so I can examine the quality of the idea, its inclusions, clarity, color, and such.
This process is more like meditation. It isn’t rushed. It isn’t hurried. Its relaxed. It’s patient. It’s curious. It is skeptical of emotional tugs and inclinations of bias. It wants logic to reign supreme, with sound justification and plenty of evidence pulled from the unconscious trove of a lifetime of memories.
I am happy.
Am I happy?
It’s not the point.
The point is the process. I am building. I am creating. I am contributing. Time will make thee.
What more can I ask for?
I can ruminate more, ask for more clarity, devote my attention to the questions that scratch my awareness when I’m alone, these empty vessels begging to be filled, like hungry animals.
I’m still working out, for the most part. 223lbs. 12% bf. I suppose that’s okay. I could lose 20lbs.
I don’t feel stable. I am Airbnb’ing my place in Nashville, with all my belongings. Relying on someone to manage this affair, which allows me to pay the rent, and will allow me to store my stuff there for another year.
At any moment I run the risk of having to move, and evacuate. It’s unsetting.
I live in a co-op of 10 other Stanford students. My room is small, but I pay about $500 to live there. They’re mostly harmless intellectuals and hippy types. But all stuck in this weird purgatory, a permanent transition stage, between being a child and an adult, that many don’t seem eager to escape. Perhaps out of feel, perhaps out of laziness.