London: day twenty-three

Standing on the street corner, waiting for the light to change and watching the raindrops dive into the puddle at my feet which reflected the buildings above, I could not help but think, “Yeah. I could make a life here.” I love the dark asphalt framed by the light grey sidewalks which are the same color as the sky and the buildings that reach up to it. I love the headlights that speed by, and the raindrops which sparkle in their beam. The steady mist of water falling from the sky and being kicked up from the street is refreshing, and baptizes the city clean. I enjoy walking along these kinds of streets, even if it means I arrive wet and a little disheveled with my coat collar turned up in defense against the biting wind. Truthfully, no matter where I am, I love these kinds of days in the city; but the fact that I am in London just makes it all the better.

My morning was fairly slow, even though I was up early, I really didn’t do anything of consequence. Class went fairly well. Tula and I had to lead a class discussion on the book “The Thirty-Nine Steps” which, even though our questions were on the spot and in depth (as well as they could be with that novel), honestly, it was like pulling teeth. Simple questions were followed by blinking stares. To anyone who is a teacher or professor, all the respect to you, I don’t know how you do it day in and day out, because the clueless looks were exceedingly aggravating. Evidently very few people actually read. And the book was simple; not even close to being on the level of classic literature – just a thriller novelette minced together with propaganda, not much more than that. It doesn’t matter much now I guess because we got an A- on it, so no use complaining anymore, but still; I don’t want to be a teacher.

For lunch/dinner Tula and I went around the corner to this little take-away sushi place. It was really quite interesting because I haven’t seen anything like it in the States actually, but it was just a little shop, with a refrigerated section full of various sushi boxes, and also some individually wrapped rolls and nigiri. They had some hot foods too, but really, it was just kind of like a deli-fashion grab-n-go sushi place. And the most surprising thing was that it was actually quite good; of course not the best I’ve had, but I would go back. Fairly affordable too. Afterwards, Tula returned to class and I enjoyed my way back to NIDO in the rain through the darkened streets.

I am really quite torn about being here though, and letting myself muse on how much I would like to stay. Because, one of the things I have always been able to do quite well is adjust to a new place. I find a way to fit in quickly, and often, whilst there and a for some time after, I can see myself staying there, honestly believing it to be a perfect fit. I always think, “This is me. This is where I want to be. I have found where I want to stay.” And in that, there has been quite the variation. In Idaho, I imagine myself living a quiet small-town life, and living comfortably with no more than what I need; maybe a family and a job that pays the bills, but nothing extravagant. But then I get bored. And that’s when I usually end up back in the city, and there I can feel a rising ambition that makes me want to match the fast-pace of the city, I get swept up in the energy and where some would see cold concrete, I see opportunity, and a life that is part of something greater and bigger. Even if I have no more than an apartment, and never end up tying myself down – another part of me is very drawn to that. In the city, I want to be better.  And there’s a little ambition in me that says I can be. But the problem is, that when I am in either place, I am in the right place. But I can’t be in both at the same time. I belong both places, and in a way, that makes it so I belong to neither. Or at least, I never feel entirely whole. I almost never feel as though my identity is all in the same place at once, because I’ve found there to be variations of me and they change with the places I am in. And I’ve forgotten which came first. But more importantly, I don't know which one I want to be.

There’s something of the innocent dreamer, even an optimist in some ways. I want to believe the best in people, and I want to believe that there is some benevolent being of a God that is looking out for me. I believe that He has it under control and that I can trust Him to be there and hear me. That I can live a life devoted to servicing others as a way of earning salvation. I pour over theology, and love it, always trying to correct the errors of interpretation and trying to use my skill sets as a way of expressing my faith. Even though my faith is academic in many ways, I care about others and find empathy easily. I would never dream of hurting another, and would withstand as much hurt as possible before ever inflicting injury on another. I am the artist. But never in that do I feel comfortable with myself and often it leads to a cycle of self-doubt, lack of confidence, a deep sorrow sparked by being overly harsh on myself, a plaguing fear of losing all those I am close to (now or future), and a crushing guilt for letting myself feel sad when there are so many others in the world that have it far worse than I do, and I should never complain. But the painful things chip away at the dreamer, who is always trying so hard to “stay positive” because that's what I am told I should be.

This is contrasted by the part of me that is angry, entirely pessimistic, is very skeptical about people and wary of extending trust or sometimes even kindness or caring, and mostly, this person is not so sure that God is all good or even cares. In these times, I find it hard to believe that God is even a literal being, so much as a metaphor for universal forces. I am internally, sarcastic, cynical and skeptical. I still value others, albeit being significantly more wary, but inwardly there is no mercy and never a moment of peace because there is so much that needs to be done or figured out. This person doesn’t want a family, because I don’t believe that I can put faith in love to last for a lifetime, and if it does, it is for the rare and lucky few. But that doesn’t bother me because neither do I have a problem with being alone - I wonder if it would be better. I cannot see the good ends of situations, and am mostly driven forward out of a deeply rooted desire to be remembered - I don't know why that is so important. I am the writer. Always fighting the war in my head, which is exhausting and eventually reverts me to the other self because I cannot keep battling constantly. In these days, there is nothing I want more than to take a baseball bat to an entire room, or at least a mirror - something, anything that will shatter. That's what it feels like is going on inside my head - someone is taking a baseball bat to it. All. The. Time. While there is still little confidence or semblance of self-worth, there is, in this case, an acceptance that there is so much I have to do within my lifetime. I have too many artistic and literary ideas that I cannot accept to let pass unexpressed; and the perfectionist in me needs them to be precisely right, if they’re not, then they need to be or else it’s all wrong. I need to work harder and to be better. If I don’t reach the top, I will have achieved nothing worth being remembered for. But this part feels as though the other is holding it back, as though I have chained myself down by not being able to throw my whole identity and energy and life into this one thing.  I care less. And that person hates it, but can find no other way to be, as experience has seemed to have taught her much otherwise; the optimist is naïve and destined to be crushed. But by always expecting the worst, things can only turn out to be either better than you expected, or exactly what you expected; rarely worse. It’s a defensive mechanism, and one I am damn good at.

These aren’t just moods though, so much as two quite distinctive persons that sometimes overlap, and other times could not be more polar opposite. And I don’t know which is “me” – I don’t know which I want to be. And I envy those who have a fixated sense of identity which is nonnegotiable; I have, essentially, opened myself up for discussion. And the sheer number of possibilities is maddening.

So I am torn. Because right now, I want to dedicate my heart and soul to achieving success in my life which would allow me to move to London and create a life here. I like being here, and, for now, I like who I am here. But I don’t know how long it will be before that changes. A couple years ago, I wanted to move to a third world country and live out a life serving others, sacrificing all comfort to do so. And now, there’s this need in me - which feels a little vicious - to succeed and achieve all that I can and try like hell to be the very best, if anything, just to prove that I can. Boredom drives me mad, but so does extreme pressure. I don’t know who I am or what I want. But I only have one shot at this. I’m rather tired of being torn in a bunch of different directions; but I no longer know what I am like.

I don't always recognize the face in the mirror.

"I'd rather feel Pain
Than nothing at all.
Anger, and agony
Are better, than misery"

("Pain" Three Days Grace)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ud4HuAzHEUc