How odd that the themes of my writings have mostly shifted in one direction. I always wonder what people think of what I say. I would imagine that people think I’m being melodramatic, that I’m looking for some sort of protagonistic pathos, or that I’m being some pretentious fuck.

It’s as if a single incident has shifted my mindset, that I just can’t seem to completely get over what has passed. The hurting has stopped, to be sure, but the thinking isn’t done. I still get inspired by memories, ideas, emotions, almost anything I’ve experienced through this.

I was once scared that I would never fall in love again, and I used to be emotionally numb. Perhaps all of this was simply a result of a life of stagnancy, of boredom. Now I can write again, I have things to think about, I have emotions to experience, I seem to have things to look forward to.

Can heartbreak be so beneficial? I know that I can feel. I don’t need to force my artistic writing. My mind seems to be filled with new endless thoughts. I can even appreciate certain music on another level now. This complexity, this mysteriousness is so interesting.

My only worry is that this new vitality will level off into nothingness.

When I went home a few months ago, I found a copy Soul Mountain at Chapters, which I had been looking for, ever since I found out about it. I’ve been reading as much as I can lately, whenever I have the time and the energy to concentrate on what Gao Xingjian is trying to narrate to me.

The thing that makes the autobiography interesting so far is that Xingjian was incorrectly diagnosed with fatal lung cancer, and after proper review, had been given a second chance on life. His outlook changes, and he begins to see everything around him very differently.

I’ve lately felt that, although I’ve never been threatened with any life-altering incidents, I’ve begun to see things differently as well. It’s as if I have nothing and everything to live for. That there would be no difference between dying tomorrow or in eight decades. It’s almost as if I’ve had my fair share of experiences, each one as important as the other in shaping who I am, good or bad, and that this is already sufficient for me to be satisfied with my life. Perhaps I feel this is true when I compare the amount that I’ve already learned with the infinite amount that is impossible to learn. After all, what is the purpose of life anyway? For me, it is to continually shape myself into a better person, whether it’s intelligence, or a better appreciation of music, or dexterity, or anything. And since there is no absolute goal I have to reach (or can reach), there is no way for me to fail, and death henceforth becomes meaningless.

When I tried to explain this to someone, he got confused, and thought that I was telling him about how I had experienced all there is to experience already. This couldn’t be further from the truth. There are a plethora of things I haven’t done, that I haven’t been through, and whenever I’m given the chance to actually experience one of these things, I feel as if I’ve gained more out of life.

Instead of seeing the act of living as crossing out items on a life-long “to do” list, I see it as writing down items on a “have done” list.

The greatest distinction for me between these two worldviews is that I can take my time in doing what I want, instead of feeling rushed to accomplish as much as I can before I die. Seeing life this way has certainly allowed me to be a much more relaxed, flexible, easy-going person, uninhibited by the fear of death. The good thing about this is that I didn’t have to fool myself into this view, simply because I was unsatisfied with my life. Somehow, this mindset shaped itself in my brain, and eventually manifested itself through my ever-continuing maturity.

It has made life meaningful and meaningless at the same time.

I just finished reading A Hero of Our Time again. It’s the book I’ve read the most in my life, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve gone straight from cover to cover through various translations. Every time I’ve read it for the last eight years, I’ve grown a little more. Certain parts that I may not have understood before become clear and relateable.

One particular passage struck me this time; Vera’s final letter to Pechorin.

For three hours now I have been sitting at the window and awaiting your return…But you are alive, you cannot die! The carriage is almost ready…Farewell, Farewell! I am lost — but what of it? If I could be certain that you will always remember me — I say nothing of loving me, no — only remember…Goodbye! Someone is coming…I have to hide this letter…

I now fully understand Vera’s final wish, having since wished the same thing myself. Yet it’s something I cannot explain, even when I myself share this feeling. Why this need to not be forgotten? Why does remembering mean so much?

Is it the need to know that I am important to someone, even if it was some ephemeral relationship or some personal mistake? Is it so that I can believe that I was so special as to be unforgettable, an egotistical or perhaps insecure shroud to fool myself? Is it to give my life meaning, a sort of purpose to know that I can indelibly change the lives of others? Or maybe it’s to know that the feelings I experience, however bathetic or affected, mean something to someone. I usually pride myself in being able to perfectly understand the feelings I go through, but this idea has left me at a loss. I wonder if others have ever felt the same way. I remember not understanding this desire in myself at the time, but believing that I would eventually.

Now I’m not sure if I ever will.

now to calm me
this time won’t you please drive faster
roll the window down
this cool night air is curious
let the whole world look in
who cares who sees anything
I’m your passenger
I’m your passenger

—Deftones, Passenger

A few months ago I took the night bus home. I arrived around midnight, and received some terrible news. I called up John, one-thirty in the morning, and asked if he wanted to do something. John, being the perspicacious genius that he is, could sense that there was something wrong. He took me for a drive, no questions asked and let me take my time in expressing myself in what I wanted. We cruised the highways for hours, the orange glow of the city creating an artificial sunset around us while fleeting white lines joined together in languid blurriness. By the end I was much calmer, even though the situation had yet to be resolved.

I’ll never forget that night, and how good it felt to be driven somewhere, anywhere. That there was no purpose to the trip, that there was no place to be or time to be there.

I took another bus ride yesterday and it all felt the same. I could catch any bus I wanted, didn’t matter where it was going. I wasn’t worried about being late, about having to meet someone, or even about how I was getting back. I could just get on a bus, claim my favourite seat, and sit down. Someone drove me somewhere while I looked out the window, at suburbia, at pedestrians, at relationships, at buildings, at fields, at grass, at poles, at cars, at clouds, at life. I was a passenger. People would get on and off the bus and join me, adventurers on a trip to the undetermined.

It was only on this bus ride, not any other bus ride, that I was able to resolve my situation. Being distracted by anything going on around me helped me take my time in thinking things through.

I had come to the realization that the only person who could help me was myself.

That I was smart enough to avoid this, but not strong enough.

By the time I got home, after transferring three buses, my mind was much clearer. I felt rather stupid, being a person who should have known better, ashamed, being a person too weak to help myself. I had been in this situation before, but still I lost my cerebrality. I made a childish, inexperienced mistake, and paid for it, deserved it even. The only thing to comfort me in this is knowing that I’ve learned a great deal, even if it was the hard way, and that I’ll probably never make the same mistake again.

There’s something cathartic about being a passenger. It’s almost as if the driver is there for you, to take you away, to listen if you need an ear, to be quiet if you need to think.

For sometimes one does not need more than this.

I recently renewed my contract with my current host for another year of service. I’m a little surprised that this page hasn’t fallen into desuetude over the last year. I suppose it’s only now, at 22, that I’m able to find meaning in almost all aspects of my life, that I have enough to write about. My previous seven or so pages have been rather empty, although there was more variety in the content. I don’t think I’ve ever had a layout last this long.

It’s usually when I have a negative emotion that I’m able to write, but the last year has been a series of ups and downs, although mostly ups, and considered to be more stable than previous years. Sometimes I can read back on previous entries and re-experience the emotion I was feeling at the time of writing them. I’m surprised that I’m not embarrassed about some entries, how rawly I’d express myself, and what I was thinking at the time. I find that I’m usually embarrassed by how ignorant, stupid, and idiotic a person I used to be. Aaron explains to me, of course, that it’s all just a measure of how far I’ve come, but it’s sometimes it’s difficult to think of what I was like and not feel shame.

I remember the nights I spent, after all classes were finished, coming home, cooking a meal, taking a shower, all I’d have left was to sit in front of my glowing monitor and write. When all I wanted, at the end of the day, was to be able to turn the lights out, write until my eyes felt too tired to focus, and go to sleep satisfied. I’m not sure if I remember those nights fondly or not.

And perhaps there are more to come.