Do you ever think about the meaninglessness of life?
That was a really weird opener, and I fear it's set up the wrong precedent for now until hereafter, but I don't mean anything funny by it. I just mean– do you ever think about the meaninglessness of life. I do, quite often. I'm not depressed, and I don't think about it in a despairing way, I just ponder it. And it's a really good topic to ponder. Because, if you think about it, life really is fairly meaningless. There's nothing in it to look forward to, really, not in the end. The path of honor leads but to the grave; we leave college, we go to grad school, we get careers (hopefully), and we die. Maybe we get married in there somewhere, raise a family, all that, and maybe we make it to retirement, but other than that, there's not much deviation from the course. What chance is there to create something lasting that would make life worthwhile? I've always wanted to set something in history that would transcend my own mortality, but as I'm growing older and less idealistic, I'm starting to think that that isn't really possible. I have no skill that would guarantee me a place on the scroll of true and honored fame, and I'm skeptical that I'll ever achieve enough success in my field to grant me even the sparest mention anywhere. I'm not going to leave a mark on the world, and I'm not going to impact it in any way, so what exactly is the point of my being here? I am useless in the grand scheme of things, and in the not-so grand scheme of things as well. I mean, let's think this through here. I am a financial burden on my family, more so now that I'm going to school here, and I'm a burden on the people around me in that they have to give me rides and talk to me and all. Opposite of helping the world. I'm being a detriment to it. And that's not good, is it? The world doesn't need more detritus. All my life, I'd hoped I would grow up to be something powerful, something amazing, something that would set off a light that generations would see for years to come. When I was in middle school, I thought for sure, high school would be the place. When I messed up my life in high school, I thought college would be the place. And now that I'm here– what? What am I here for? Am I just going to be an extra burden on my family for another four years? Am I going to take away chances for Kitty and Sungmin just because of my ambition and pride? I'm not achieving anything special. I'm not anything special, period. So what am I doing? I'm not going to kill myself or anything, of course, I'm just trying to figure out why I'm alive and what I'm doing with my life, since I am. You know, I thought that college would be my tabula rasa, I even optimistically professed that opinion back in one of these entries. But it's not. I haven't overcome myself. I'm still just the same, old, pathetic, Jasmine. I'll never be good enough, and that's the depressing truth. Maybe I'll live my life in mediocrity, if I'm lucky, and that's nothing to live for. So, I suppose, the question is what is the meaning of life now? What's the point of my existence? I'm not happy, not really, and I don't think I ever will be. Oh dear, let's back that up a second. I've gotten over my depression, and I'm not the chronically unhappy, suicidal, person I was before, and let's be clear about that. I don't go through my life feeling sad, or numb, or anything like that, and often I do have moments of clear joy, but they're just moments. They're not connected or cohesive, and I know they're not going to last. I know happiness isn't a big, dramatic, fanfare; it's a quiet realization that everything's all right (or something of that nature), but I think you would know if you were happy. And you wouldn't think about death without aversion. I'm not afraid to die. I don't want to go, and I'd do anything (within reason) to prevent it, but when the time comes, I won't be afraid to face whatever it is that's on the other side. Yes, I'm afraid of the dying part, I'm petrified of the pain, but aside from that, there's nothing there to scare me. How did I get so morbid? I don't know! I didn't intend for this discussion to take a dark turn. I guess I'm just venting my problems, since there's no one whom I can talk to about these things.
What is happiness anyway? I mentioned it, but maybe I don't actually know. Is anyone really, truly, happy? Anyone who saw me would think I was. There isn't anything to me, really, just sunshine and daisies, and sunshine and daisies aren't unhappy at all. Is happiness one's appearance? I'm not talking about smiling all the time, or telling flippant jokes, or dancing through the halls of the dorm while rehearsing an acapella version of Build Me Up, Buttercup. There are a lot of perfectly happy people who don't do those things. No, I mean the sort of inner peace you can see in even the most taciturn souls sometimes. These people seem perfectly content with everything. They don't flutter around crying when they read Milton or hear Variations on a Theme by Corelli. They don't feel as if they want to break down and give in to sheer and utter panic when they spend too much time with strangers. And they especially don't starve themselves because they're too afraid to get food or eat around people. But is that happiness, or is that normalcy? At this point, I think I'd take either one.
I want ice cream. I want to eat a whole tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and listen to Wagner and cry. And I want Austin to come over and cuddle with me and rub my back (cuz I'm soooo sore). But lacking this, I'd give a chunk of my hair for a piece of schoolwork that was slightly challenging or a person who could discuss something meaningful with me. I talked about a truth table with Delightful Devin in logic today, and it was the best five minutes I'd had all day. Actually, that whole class is the best part of my day. I look forward to it, because it's the only class in which I'm sure of some mental stimulation. Yes, I learn things in my other classes, and yes, I like them a lot, but the breakdown is always something like 10% explanation and 90% rehash for what seems like every other person in the class. Orchestra is like that too. And my humanities scholars class is nothing but self-satisfied back-patting, as I'm sure I've already mentioned. So yeah! Nothing much there! I know I'm being whiny, but you know when you're complaining about something, every other complaint comes out too. I'm bored, plain and simple, and I'm not paying 18000 dollars a year to be bored.
I wish I could take more classes. I wish I didn't have to max out at 18 credits. I wish I didn't have to take my stupid survey class and my stupid humanities class. And I wish the people at this nationally-reknowned university were smarter than the kids at my high school. I'm going to die of the lack of intellectual companionship. I know I sound horribly conceited and egotistical right now, but objectively speaking, these people are pretty dim, and there's nothing they or I can do to sugarcoat the situation. Oh dear, I think placing out of calculus has gone to my head. I feel like I'm smart now. Phooey on everything! Man, I want ice cream.
Another thing! One of the few pleasures I have in this college life is going to the library between classes and reading a little bit from whichever book suits my fancy at the moment. But I'm having such a hard time doing that, because I'm so horribly shy and terrified of people that I can't bring myself to read anything around them! I feel like they'll judge me. Reading a book in the library? Oh goodness. Try to contain your screams of shock, ladies. It will be all right. No, but really, a lot of people don't go there to read, or even to study, so I feel weird when I do it. Whenever I see someone coming, I whip out my phone and pretend to text so they'll think I'm just some bubble-headed valley girl and will judge me on that account and not as a person. I know this doesn't make sense, but it's my best defense mechanism. I do it quite often. I think I talked about it before; when I'm out in public by myself, I put on my bug-eye sunglasses and text conspicuously and drink my Starbucks and flash around my cleavage and act like the opposite of myself, just so I won't break down. Yeah, it doesn't make sense, I'm silly, I know. Got that. But it's so annoying to have to pause in the middle of my Moliere and pull out my phone to text some random person back! It's even worse when I'm reading poetry. It's like I'm in another world, and then I'm pulled back to the pedestrian present for no reason but my stupid social anxiety. I HATE IT SO MUCH. During Thanksgiving break, when everyone's gone, I hope the library is still open, because I want to go there and read all by myself. It would be perfect. ♥
Bless me, this was a really long and rambling and very
depressing entry! I should probably not write stuff like this in the future in case my self-pity gets too out of hand. But I feel a lot better now! That was strangely cathartic. All right, goodnight now!