Oblivion

(An excerpt from one of my journal entries dated July 24th, 4:15pm)

I want to be so much more, do so much more, and mean so much more. But how? How do I achieve respite for myself when so many others try to do the same and can't? What makes me so atypical that I should have an atypical life?

I, like everybody else, am nothing more than a chunk of evolved stardust making a futile attempt to give meaning to the cosmos. But assigned meaning isn't the same as divine meaning, It's not as important and it's far less accurate. Perhaps instead of seeking to find meaning, we should simply be open to allowing meaning to find us.

I don't know if any of this is even making sense, but I had to get it out and written so that maybe someday it will make sense. Or maybe it won't. Such is life and such is the way of the universe. In the end, none of it will matter anyways. In the end, the true end, nothing will matter because nothing will be. In 200 years nothing I have done or will do is going to matter. So why bother? Why try with such futility to change things to your liking or your benefit? Years from now when you don't matter anymore, someone else (who also doesn't matter) will just come along and change everything you did.


The size of the universe and how minuscule we all are in it is both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

Life Is What You Make It

More and more I believe that if you hate life, it will hate you back, and if you love life it will love you back.

The First Day of Class

The first day of class is the worst day of that class. Every class, every semester.

You walk into a room full of people you've never seen before in your life, and you sit down as far away from anybody else as possible. Then you wait for 10 or 12 or 20 minutes, praying in agony that you're in the right room.

Every time the door opens those people you don't know look up, trying to guess if it's the professor or not (inevitably the professor will be one of the last people to come in before class is supposed to start.) And once the professor does show up, and the clock ticks over to the designated start time, the professor breaks the stark silence by saying "we'll wait a few more minutes in case people are lost" which only serves to prolong your anxiety.

Then finally, the professor stands. And finally they welcome everyone to whatever class and you breath a sigh of relief because finally you have confirmation that you have been in the right place this whole time (meanwhile somebody else has packed up and scurried out the door in search of the class they signed up for, but didn't end up in).

And then you start the worst part of it all: ice breakers. The professor will state their name, and say one useless fact about themselves, and then its your turn. "Let's go around the room and when we get to you tell us your name, your major, and one interesting fact about yourself!" And suddenly you've become the most uninteresting person on the entire earth.

So again, you wait in agony for 5 or 12 or 15 minutes while each and every person introduces themselves, and you wait and you try to think of some tiny factoid that won't sound completely stupid when it comes out of your mouth. And then it's your turn and you've forgotten your own name, let alone how to make yourself sound interesting. You probably make up a "fact" about yourself, just to get it over with.

And then, once all 32 people (and whoever just came in 27 minutes late) have introduced themselves, you begin the arduous task of reviewing the syllabus, that, oh, you were supposed to print and read before coming to class. Whoops. You pretend to try to listen, but in all reality these things are all the same even though Professor Whoever insists that "this syllabus isn't like the ones from your other teachers, so pay attention."

If you're lucky, that sums up class for the first day. If not, get ready; you have a 90 minute lecture coming at you.

Do You Ever Wonder How Much You Exist in Other People's Lives?

Sonder

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

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I'm always curious if people think of me when a certain song comes on, or when they pass through a certain part of town. I wonder how many stories I've been a part of that I may have forgotten, how many pictures I've accidentally photo-bombed. I wonder if I still exist in the minds of people I don't speak to anymore. I wonder how many times a day I pass through someones mind.

I wonder how many people make up a narrative of my life when they see me. I wonder if they wonder about me. Do they have an opinion about me, about who they think I might be? Do they mentally give their opinions when they overhear my conversations? Perhaps they've seen me somewhere before, or perhaps they only think that.
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[http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/23536922667/sonder]