Thoughts From West Egg

I took a drive early yesterday morning to nowhere in particular, just a drive to breath a little. There wasn't much out there so I decided to stop at one of my favorite places in this world. I don't really know why I like it there. Maybe because it's almost always quiet, there's really no people around, but probably because it reminds me of walking around in the setting of one of my favorite books in the world, kind of like a two-for-one adventure. I just kind of sat down in the grass and took in everything around me and how it's changed. In the attitudes of the park benches, and the trees, and the age old houses that sit cozy in their dangerously close location to the water, all the flavor has been sucked out. It's almost like everything kind of left this place. It's been abandoned...by me.

Do memories ever remember us? Does the replaying in some other dimension of all our life's struggles and happiness ever think about where we went or what happened to us? Probably not. They're unaware of everything in a blissful way. Kind of like when someone hits you and it feels like it hurts at first but then goes away quickly, so you forget until later on when it all comes back as this horrid bruise and the person who hit you has no idea the hurt that they caused. They knew it at the initial strike but they didn't see what happened when they were gone, when they were no longer looking. But it's already over for them. They've moved on and there you are with this bruise that you barely even understand the origin of. We've all bruised at least one person in our lives and they're just walking around trying to deal with it. All the while we go confidently about our daily lives. But maybe we're all equal since we've all been bruised. It's kind of hard, making sense of something like that. I guess you just have to do your best not to bruise anyone or at least try and remember everyone. To never forget what they were saying before you hit them, who they were, why you were even standing there with them in the first place, is so important.

Memories can't remember, only we can. Our memories are not perfect even when people wish for one. But, there is a price for having a perfect memory. Everyone wants the memory of an elephant because they think it would help them, but the reality is, it would only make things unbearable to witness. True, you remember all of the happiness and all of the wondrous things that some people have the ability to say, but you can also remember all of the sad things those same people said, all of the things that weighed you down the minute they were spoken. And all of these things come together in some sort of mixed up and crazy way so that in the end you realize, you can't tell the truth from what was a lie. Suddenly you don't know anyone anymore and you feel like the dumbest animal alive. This whole world would make you fall apart in pain if you could remember everything. You would find yourself begging on bloody hands and knees not to be fooled again. But elephants, somehow they live in these perfect societies that are wise and beautiful. If it wasn't for the fact that they still fight, an elephant society would almost be a utopia. Elephants, however, don't long as humans do. Humans have a much more complex emotional range so that mental pain can quickly turn into physical pain.

There's a longing in me as there is in everyone. I can find myself drifting away in thought sometimes and a shower of hurt can fall over me as I realize, something is gone. It's like someone took a huge chunk of my chest and ripped it out, then ran away with it because that was all that was needed for them to go on living and for me, just to survive. It can wake me up in the middle of the night. It can disturb me as I'm reading a book and suddenly all of the words seem to pertain to my feeling, as if trying to draw a map to something I'll never get back. Sometimes it's as if a child has been ripped from me, and I can't ever see it again. There's a word for just about everything in the English language, but there really isn't a word strong enough to describe this feeling. The closest I've come is found in Portuguese: saudade. I think a lot of people have felt at least something similar. If they haven't, they more than likely will at some point in time. That isn't pessimism, it's just wisdom.

In the end, I suppose the only real trust is the trust you put in yourself. You can't lie to yourself, you'll always know the truth, even if you know absolutely nothing about you. You don't necessarily have to like who you are or what you've done, you just have to believe that one day, you may just get it right. People are quick to say that someone depressed has given up, but the truth is, they've fought for so long and tried so hard and believed so much but then found that none of it was worth while and they're tired. They've got too many bruises and can't stand up because it hurts so much. Never forget that everyone has fought a battle, no matter how young or old and those could have been terrors beyond belief. Nobody ever just falls down and says, "I give up." They keep trying until they're so exhausted that they don't have a choice but to lay down in the middle of the highway and let the world run over them. Be consistent in what you believe, it's all the possessions you really have. If you step away from it, you're the one giving up.

I realize that Blanche Dubois isn't exactly a model character to follow, but she deserves credit for the adversity she had to face and for never abandoning the truth about who she was. As they're escorting her away to the mental hospital at the end of the play, do you know what she says?
"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers." In my opinion, it's the bravest thing she does in the entire play. So I suppose I came to the conclusion around 2 am that, you have to remember everyone for who they are. Never forget how you saw someone yesterday, how beautiful they were, even if they've turned against you today. You can miss them all that you want, but they probably will never come back. You can hope for it though, and you become a saudade. But most of all, listen to Polonius before you leave, "This above all, to thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst then be false to any man." Thanks, Shakespeare.