Today I am twenty six years old. I don't think that being twenty six really "makes you think" like I think you would think having achieved other ages. Today I am mostly lonely, a settled, almost comfortable loneliness that has been haunting me for some time. I think loneliness may be a kind of perpetual fear, but I'm not sure.
For me, the loneliness advocates subtle melodramas that pull a host of "shoulds" to the surface of my consciousness. In the name of looking for solutions (and often finding them in cold, ethical logic), these "shoulds" massage my thoughts with warm, endearing guilt.
I think about what you would want to read in this blog post, I think about what you would want a lot. And not so much in a benevolent or altruistic way, but more in the way of marketing, of being my own salesman. I've spent so much time trying to pitch myself as a likeable product, and I've spent far too much time succeeding.
You see? Guilt, haha.
But there is some truth there: I am not a man that is easily open with sincere emotions. I can be very closed and very judgmental, attributes often combined and intensified by my imaginative and critical mentalities. But I am also grateful for imagination and critical thinking.
I think that guilt really is the devil's advocate.
Imagination can be very much two-edged. A strange reference, I know, but a while back I was fascinated by a few lines from Hannibal Lecter in the 2002 movie Red Dragon:
"[You] stink of fear under that cheap lotion. You stink of [fear], but you're not a coward. You fear me, but still you came here. You fear this shy boy, yet still you seek him out. Don't you [understand]? You caught me because we're very much alike. Without our imaginations, we'd be like all those other poor...dullards. Fear...is the price of our instrument. But I can help you bear it."
This blog can be such an interesting environment for me, always here is the cycle of wanting to be honest, not wanting to be embarrassed, not wanting to bore you, and yet wanting to be sincere. Also there is the desire to write well. Also there is the desire to define with logic, this desire being constantly frustrated by another desire: admitting to elusive possibility.
I want you to know that I do like myself (and I definitely want myself to hear me say it). I am now twenty six years old. I am not married. I am not in a relationship. I am not at an optimal weight according to various BMI graphs. I did not eat lunch. I had an egg mcmuffin for breakfast and I probably will have another one tomorrow because they're delicious. I hate ignorance, especially in myself. I hate seafood. I do not like the beach very much although the vistas are gorgeous. I want to visit Spain. I want to live in London.
Sometimes it is very hard for me to like myself and I think, as alluded to by a cannibal, this can be the price of an expansive imagination - it is easy for me to imagine myself as another man, as a better man, as a more successful man, as the object of more affection, as the source of more respect and awe, as the victim of less fears and uncertainties.
I guess we all struggle with acceptance, with coupling imagination and reality, with reconciling the guilt-ridden interplay of beliefs and dreams. I so struggle. And I love you.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's my birthday and I want some Red Velvet cake.
