My Lonely City

… when you begin contemplating the advantages of an early death. (We are gathered together today to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of an extraordinary young person … ) I used to think people who hated their lives just weren’t trying hard enough. That if they were unhappy, it was their responsibility to make their needs and desires known, and work toward a solution to provide for their fulfillment. (I’m thinking here of my initial impatient response to Madame Bovary’s Emma, and, to a lesser extent, Sense and Sensibility’s Marianne.)

I’m not sure I think that anymore. Is it possible to be happy doing something you do not enjoy? Doing it repeatedly, I mean, being defined by its performance, because it “needs to be done”? Is it even neccessary to be happy? Does it really need to be done? Does it matter? And how do you work to find a solution for the fulfillment of desires whose expression would most likely be percieved as an attack upon the listener(s)? In fact, the expression of any unfulfilled desire could be seen as an attack upon any listener, due to the way I - and, I suspect, many others sharing my geographic, generational, and intellectual place - have been conditioned to anticipate the wants and needs of those around me, or to behave “appropriately”. What about conflicting desires? Or those which are inaccesible to one’s rational awareness? (As a side note, there is cat hair in my laptop’s keyboard. This is not news, I’m just recording the fact for bored and unfortunate posterity.)

I’m young. I have plenty of time. If I have it figured out in ten years or so, I’ll be doing good.

I’m not sure I can stand ten more years of this, not having it figured out.