meh, or merp

It's probably going to be okay.

I think it is a snag that can be mended. I think it is a hole that can be stitched.

The problem is, when you depend on someone else to tie the two ends together, to fit the last pieces in place, the situation is perpetually unresolved. Until it isn't. Until that day my visa comes in the mail. Until I see my beloved and well-worn passport once again, sporting a most important piece of paper for my trip. Aside from my plane tickets, that is.

The time I have left before I leave, the time I have to wait and wait and think and stew about my upcoming adventure, is crushing. It's anxious and important and stifling and exciting. I feel pressured to horde bonding time with my guy and my friends and my biff; every moment I'm not spending with someone else seems like a waste, and a risk that when I return, things can't or won't be the same. And maybe they shouldn't be. But that's ignoring the fact that, as humans, we basically abhor most change. Especially a change in something that's functional, that's working, that serves its purpose and adds, even minutely, to our lives. Differences, though, changes and alterations in the usual, even if not completely welcomed or enjoyable, are memorable and, strangely, can even be fun. Fun simply because they're different. Fun because they're out of the ordinary, because our brains relished processing the new information.

This happened the other night when a group of us girls went out to dinner; we ate at a completely new restaurant for our posse, a place we'd never been to together. Aside from that, it was a trek far beyond our usual neighborhoods, and, although we've surely had objectively better times, and things between some people have been on better terms, it was still an experience I'd label 'fun'. Perhaps it's just something about my brain in particular; I have, I think due to being moved and uprooted throughout my childhood, developed a knack for adapting to new and varied situations, so much so that now, when I haven't moved or changed something rather significant in a while (like, within a year) I feel not me. I don't feel good, inexplicably. My soul begins to wither, I suppose. Change to me is like water to a plant.

I'm not sure if it bothers anyone that the titles of my posts seems to have little to no relation to their subject matter; of course, they make perfect sense to me, but from a perspective outside of my mind, I could imagine that being annoying. How can you pick out which to read if the title gives you no indication of what you'll be reading about? Other people's blogs have relevant titles; other people's blogs are and do a lot of things that mine isn't and doesn't.

Speaking of which, I spent two hours in class last night perusing a range of other blogs, surfing through them until something interesting popped up. There are so many talented bloggers out there! So many amazing writers, designers, photographers, and cooks or bakers. I was rendered extremely humble upon reading waves and waves of interesting or beautiful or creative blogs that seemed so much more multi-faceted and remarkable than mine. Ugh. I hate comparing myself to others, but it's so hard not to! Inevitably, truly without exception, the result is I feel completely paralyzed by incompetence. It's my fault, I know I have this problem. Eventually, the paralysis wears away and a little inspiration seeps through cracks in a wall of embarrassment I've erected to shade myself from view of these elusive others. The others among whom I'm discomfited to coexist; the people with whom I'm humiliated to share the blogosphere, taking the present example. That feeling has shaped my entire law school experience; taking one step forward in my confidence level, being destroyed by a professor's hypo in class, or a mediocre grade, or another rejection letter from a summer internship. It's hard to stand back up, but as I've learned, and as one of my good friends is learning presently, the only real option is to try your best to stand once again. Which is a subjective thing. One person's success is another's collapse, I suppose. It's all about our personal perspective on ourselves and on our lives. There's one person who always tells me, go easy on yourself; take care of yourself. Which is easy to say, and hard to do. Who even knows what that means? Again, subjective. One person's cigarettes is another's green tea.

Sometimes I wonder what the purpose of all this working soooo hard is. All this toil and anxiety and pressure. For what? What does it do for humanity? What benefit is it to you? A paycheck, of course, but beyond that? Is it worth a thing? People rushing around, consumed in self-importance and business and hurry and worry; it all seems so ultimately pointless. The girl who inspired me to take my trip to Thailand this year, who participated in the same summer internship in Cambodia last year, said to me yesterday, "I don't do much of anything unless it advances human rights. I ask myself, 'will this help sex trafficking victims?' If not, I don't do it." And that pretty much spans the course of her life, affecting romantic relationships, school, work and play. What a spectacular and refreshing point of view! Her words are swirling around my thoughts today, they're dripping into my sight and delectably framing my day. It didn't strike me so much at the time as it does now, but why don't more of us adopt that kind of approach, in the context of a cause about which we are fervent advocates? Surely most people can name one thing outside of their immediate lives that incites a passion in them to work for something better, something more, something beyond themselves. I would think that living without that spark would make for a futile waste of a life.

After really considering what she said, I realized that I too was familiar with that way of thinking, in my more youthful, idealistic, and passionate phases, but I had become so burnt and abused by the heavy feeling of not being able to have any meaningful impact on the problem, by my frustration at people's wilful ignorance or even disdain for causes that seem like no-brainers to me, such as protecting the environment, feminism (the simple yet complicated and somehow refuted notion that women are equal to men), or racism inherent in the application of the death penalty in the U.S., that I dulled it, I trimmed it back, I lost it in the hullabaloo. I'm looking forward to savoring the feel of this feeling again, of tasting the desire to be and do good, sometimes at the sacrifice of some of my comforts. That's life to me. It's troubling how easy it is to forget that.