essays

an unthinkpiece for my yearning anxiety

i am nothing if not a very ambitious person.

part of that has to do with the insecurity that came as a result of depression or past shame or dysphoria, though i can’t tell which is which. part of it also has to do with arrogance. i, for some reason, think i can create things that are beautiful. whether or not that is true is for some to decide. my scope is ginormous for essay topics, as i can’t help but make intuitive leaps that makes me subsume seemingly irrelevant material into the vortex that is my desire for beauty and clarity. even the most basic topics, with time, become a monster that i can’t control. i also want to do all of my essays “right,” whatever that means. i’m not sure what it means if i’m being completely honest with you. i try my best to turn the garbled up mess of a mind that grasps everything but is unable to explain why. i am just as lustful as i am exhausted—simultaneously incapable of forming a coherent sentence and able to pierce through many works for the sake of clarity. is this meant to be a self-pity piece that justifies my inability, a sort of “woe is me!” unthoughtpiece? is this some egocentric practice that justifies all of my bad habits? or is this just me typing away, clawing away, tearing away—again, the distinction is meaningless—at something in order to soothe my anxiety?

to me, ideas are like cadmium paint. they are so, so bright with beauty and love to me. they are, in some respect, intoxicating. it is easy for me to ignore their implications even if it means that i poison myself. however and in contradiction, im also aware of many of their implications. it’s the reason why i’ve strayed away from tech critiques that amount to “the kids are getting dumber because of The Phone” or “we are losing our Authenticity because of social media.” this is because things like “authenticity” don’t really resonate with me at this point in my life. sure, i’m a very artificial being, i’ll admit that much. but is there a point where i was ever really “authentic” in the first place? i’m willing to wager that such a claim is untrue, especially since the forces that tried to make me into some sort of masculine figure were just about as artificial as the clothes that i wear to make myself more comfortable. where does the bit end and the authentic begin? is the bit ending The End of the bit, or just a concealing act? round and round we go. figuratively, of course, as we don’t actually go anywhere.

i am, for some reason, trying to grasp everything at once while simultaneously throwing it all away. what makes me enjoy this (un)thinkpiece more than the essay that i have to write for a class, one that i had to wrestle away from the limitations of the topics at hand so i can arrogantly talk about what i want instead? part of it is definitely selfishness, but part of it is also because i believe it to be too limiting. i have lots to talk about, after all. often times, this means that i am taking more work than i need to be, especially for a short time-frame which i know i cannot deal with. either feel empty while i type away words i don’t believe in anyway, or read and interpret things constantly. in either case, i feel sick. no, i am sick.

i think what lays in the heart of my problem is the contradiction between my heart and my mind. all the love and joy in my heart about my friends and the causes i want to champion is equally shadowed by my biting cynicism and depressive attitude towards everything. people usually don’t say that i’m cynical—it’s usually quite the opposite. but i don’t believe that to be true when i know that my cynicism can bite me. i don’t want to subsume one into the other either, so i’m left in this weird state of hedonistic melancholy (as contrasted by depressive hedonia, where we constantly desire satisfaction even if it’s empty). i am constantly injected with satisfaction i know to be empty and do not wish for. i am constantly convinced of ideas that i hope will be true but i know don’t capture everything. i am constantly thinking i can make something that is Of Worth whilst knowing of that it is useless. not that that’s shameful—that shame was far before that conviction takes over me.

i am simultaneously paranoid and trusting, thinking about the exceptions and writing about the content at hand. nothing even feels boring to me anymore, it’s just that my useless mind-body makes me simultaneously erratic and inert. moving too fast, not moving at all. going everywhere, going nowhere. i complain incessantly about my body, saying that i’m burnt out or that my body is fragile or that my back hurts while i walk around with a 15 pound bag to random places. i cry over nothing and my mind is overwhelmed to the point where all i can do is go back to my room and cry and read whatever book is in store, or perhaps fall into the usual depressive hedonia. of course, whatever i read usually doesn’t make me any happier, but there is some sort of healing aspect to it.

all of this expressive power. for nothing. for something. will it result in something? not sure. but i anxiously (and with a heart full of desire and yearning) share it anyway because i (don’t) believe it to do anything.