It almost feels surreal that June is about to end. Surreal as in the experience of sunsets fading sleeplessly into the horizon like the leaving of a lost dream. Surreal as in the sound of the abyss resting beneath our shallow feet. It’s comedic, as I think about it now, how the days slip into our consciousness like an evil dictator commanding us, dictating us, that Time will soon be over.
I have been in school only once this June. That was my first day, a Wednesday. After that, the days stretched itself into an infinite stream of lonely wakeful hours and zombie-dead days of depression and unproductivity. Skipping class is one thing. Missing out on org meetings is another. But the sickest, most dangerous thing of all is deciding not to care. Or deciding not to decide altogether.
My first day in school was a blur. A giant absorbing blur that if magnified two or three times would present all of my imperfect survival mechanisms. Two of the professors didn’t show up that day which left me a handful of hours to waste. I spent the day listening to other people’s stories about how their summer went or about the new boy/girl they’re crushing on or about the irksome ways to bully the freshies. Petty matters like that. On the surface was my plaster face warm as the weather and the welcoming committee combined. On the inside was my screaming voice begging to go home. By the end of the last period I was close to murdering myself with the tip of my G-tec pen just so I could be alone.
A typical school day for an average college student would consist of the following:
a) sitting in class
b) sitting in class while exchanging stories with seatmates about how cool the latest Transformers movie was.
c) sitting in class while exchanging stories with seatmates about how cool the latest Transformers movie was, while munching on a cheap cheese burger.
d) sitting in class while exchanging stories with seatmates about how cool the latest Transformers movie was, while munching on a cheap cheese burger and pondering on philosophical issues raised by the professor.
Life at the university has been mostly a’s. Plain and repetitive a’s day after goddamn day. I wish I could say that college was the best thing that ever happened in my life. But the truth is nowhere near these words. And it’s not the people I detest, though in some odd ways they bring something to the equation. Far from that, it’s this faceless ghoul that keeps on meddling, nagging, imposing ways on how I see life. It’s this deep dark swirl of both pleasure and pain that keeps on treading both ways in an imperfect balance. It’s this unnamed imperative to languish, to suffer. It’s the inevitable experience of the extreme, the weighty withdrawal from people and from life in general.
I’m married to loneliness for as long as I could remember. The first few years were mountaintops. But once I got the hang of it things eventually seemed familiar, easy. Contrary to popular belief depression is not destructive. It is creative. Of course, at first you have to go through the unglamorous sessions of dealing with your unglamorous feelings. But once you master these monsters you get to learn to create a world with meaning, a world acceptive and uncritical of who you are. In a world where people insists on always aiming for brighter days, going through a rather dull one could actually be a more fulfilling encounter than all the surface-level happiness in the world.