Clarity

I walked home in this cold morning's air, dividing my breath into equal parts oxygen and cigarette smoke.

Last night there was a rave. And although I partook in the joys of being a young, stupid university student, the evening (or rather, very early morning) didn't revolve around dancing freely in the midst of sweaty people, and it didn't involve $5 water bottles. Last night was the light that brought some reason into my (sometimes) senseless head.

It's a natural, yet rather unseemly aspect of mankind that we often place expectations upon people we've just met. We all know the gist of what we want from a person as soon as we see them, and on a superficial level there's nothing wrong with that. People carry themselves the way they want to be seen, and we as members of a society pick up on that and judge them accordingly.

The issue for me: I have a tendency of forcing total strangers into pre-defined parameters that are easy for me to swallow. It's not something I'm particularily proud of, and it's made me lose a lot of people that could have been very significant to my life, but let's just say, until now, it's been a necessary evil in order to maintain my sanity.

What I realized throughout the course of last night's experience is this: in moments of simple unadulterated ultra-lucidity, it doesn't matter who I am, or who you are, or who I want you to be; we're all dead afraid of some aspect of life or another. Being able to spend a moment of uncertainty with a warm and welcoming soul is all I could have hoped for from this whole ordeal, and I'm beginning to think it's all I should really expect from anybody. Their presence, our mutual acceptance of the nature of things, and perhaps an ear to talk to and a hug.

Open up a bit, Manny. The world's beautiful, you know that. Let it be.

Just a thought.

Good night.


M

Paralysis

     I wish I knew how to tell the world that I'm deeply in love with it, but every time I try, the words get stuck in my throat.

     Somewhere between being terrified of opening my mouth to speak to beautiful women and fighting to keep my eyes open through the searing light of the sun the morning after, I find a niche where I can be the glorious son of a bitch I want to be. I can dance, I can sing, I can ignore my insecurities for a new york minute and I can simply be.

     It's rare, but moments like this do come around. In these fleeting glimpses of my true nature, I wish the whole world could see me shining, but few people ever really do. I'm unbearably shy, and I get thrown off my game very easily by strangers. There's something in me that worships the notion of the Other so much that a slap in the face from my closest friend wouldn't phase me as much as two cruel words from some girl I meet at a party. Paralysis slowly sets in, and consumes my everything. I stutter when I speak, I don't say what I really mean, I try to play a character actor in a really shitty movie that nobody watched in the first place (idea for a title: "Assholes Who Try Too Hard II: Back With A Vengeance").

Who really wants to take the time to see if I'm a good person anyway, if my first impression is so bland?

And so, it's rare that people will have the patience to stick around and wait for a show that might not happen. And so, I cannot captivate people very easily. And so, I miss out on great opportunities to connect to, and learn from, and have momentary romances with people I've hardly met.

It's said that confidence isn't given, it's earned. I've worked for my fair share, but the count feels light.

the world-weary traveler that never left his home.

Hi. You can call me Manny.
I have many passions, and I'm my own worst critic.

     For a long time, I've been wandering through my life, a vagrant in what's supposed to be my one and only chef-d'oeuvre, hearing brilliant stories of people who've transcended themselves, only ever catching glimpses of what that even means. In these stories, great enlightened beings achieve Nirvana, or find eternal happiness, or some bullshit like that.

     As I've grown, both in age and in character, I've become less and less inclined to chase fairy tales, but there was a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to be a supreme being capable of creating beauty from nothingness. The notion still stands, of course (a healthy ego is nothing to be ashamed of), but the caliber has been severely toned down. I've settled--if one can call it settling--for trying to master different skills as I encounter them. The goal herein is not as perverse as you may assume, dear reader (although it may be horribly self-involved):

     I want to be the best person I can be.

     I firmly believe in the notion of building upon one's identity in the most absurd, existential way. I'm obsessed with giving myself as many tools as possible and launching myself into the world, in the hopes that they'll have a practical use.

     There was a time in my early teenage years where I did nothing but read books and stay indoors and shelter myself from the world, and I never want to be that person again. I want to live my life furiously, and I'm driven by a lust for grandeur which all but guarantees that I will.

Overcompensation? Probably. In fact, definitely. But I can think of many worse ways to spend my life.

How about you?


     Model: Certified Polar Hastings.