I'm waiting for an uber-fan to surface and realize that these posts always come in pairs.
Whenever I sit down to write, I think of my audience. That's you, my sweet little babies. And nobody wants to read eight paragraphs. I don't even want to read four paragraphs, unless it's my own writing. Which is exactly what I just did. See, now and then, some very lovely individuals come forward and give me some praise. Which is dangerous. It's like feeding pigeons in a park. They're going to love you, yes. And they may deserve a little bit of bread, a Cheetoh, or some caviar. But they're going to want more. I'm not saying don't compliment me. Just... do so with caution. Because I really like Cheetohs.
Back to black, I get compliments. I had got the thought in my head that I've made a lot of progress in my writing, that my first posts were some self-indulgent, self-aware experiment into the blogosphere. And they were! But damn, I'm funny sometimes. They're not as topical as my more current endeavors, but you know what, I stand by them. They're my children. Some are just way more annoying than others.
I don't know if you've ever read anything by the great H.P. Lovecraft, but I have. Yeah, I know. College freshman, getting my bearings, growing out my beard, reading 19th century horror stories. Cliche! Sue me. Lovecraft is a master, and he touches on a lot of themes, but the one that always stuck with me was the juxtaposition of loneliness/being alone in urban environments. How you can feel that you're the only person for miles (or kilometers, silly non-Americans), despite being surrounded by thousands of other people. Sometimes, that hits me. Not in a full Edgar Allen Poe, My Chemical Romance way. But in a subtle, Desperado sort of way. I'm long overdue for a post about my love life, and I'm not exactly sure if this is it, but I think I'd like to indulge in some emotions and touch on it.
I'm a 21-year-old American male. Women are a priority for me right now. Are they top priority? Depends on how much I've slept that day and whether or not I've had a good meal. But here on abroad, things are skewed. It's strange.
So let me ask you, since I just can't make up my mind. Is it worth it to try and get close to someone, knowing that they'll be leaving at the end of the semester? Is it a life-lesson waiting to happen, an exercise in loving and losing? A brief, romantic fling, as ships passing in the night? Or is it completely stupid?
I'm not sure myself, but I've had the discussion with myself a lot. On top of everything, it takes two to tango. My decision in that regard doesn't necessarily mean that I've got the green light from Mission Control.
There are a lot of cool women here. Some intelligent, some clever, all beautiful, I kid you not. It's like hog heaven, except I'm not doing anything about it. Walking into a candy store, enjoying the experience, and walking out, no purchases made. Purchases is a horrible verb to use in regards to women. I'm not trying to allude to human trafficking. And women are not edible. I know this. The candy shop was a bad metaphor. Get off my back.
To be honest, I left behind a lot of things in San Francisco. A lot of my greatest friends, and some of the best women I've ever had the privilege to know. Part of my heart is there right now. It's to be expected, but when it gets to be in the early hours here, with the innate insomnia of Hong Kong filling my room, my mind wanders. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it's so easy to romanticize the people that have come and gone. I'm dealing with a cocktail of both, and it gets to me sometimes.
I'm just going to go as the spirit moves me. Wikipedia had a great quote, in regards to something completely different and far more important than the angst of an American. "Be bold, but not reckless." I think that's good advice, and I think that I'm going to try and follow it.
But right now, with Palo Alto playing and the lights of Kowloon coming through my window, I'm thinking about California.
But he's driving, and striving, and hugging the turns. And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.
-The Distance, Cake