the unbearable lightness

my elusiveness carries guilt. it seems that the less i write, the more abject i feel. i suppose this is why i ache for academia; the sniveling masochist in me is just thirsting for someone to breathe down my neck and scare me to genius caliber. i have what i'd call a lazy artist curse. i realize this sounds more like a zach galifianakis impression (see; the pretentious illiterate, the timid pimp...) than an actual condition. i tend to feel withdrawn and apathetic when i am not actively partaking in some sort of creativity. but in the winter months especially, i can not find that motivation. it stirs up memory of an artist i once dated who, over the course of two months, had researched every facet of my life's interests, and then built, painstakingly hand-carved and painted a personalized wooden memory box for me. during this time he would repeatedly reference this "project" of his; how it would prove the magnitude of his feelings for me, and the seriousness with which he viewed the relationship. when he ironically ended it a couple of weeks later, just after gifting the box to me in an elaborate presentation involving scarves, fresh flowers,and too much excitement, i couldn't help but ask but why? how? what about the...? his response, plain and simple, spilling from the most stoic expression: i was just inspired- i am an artist- that is what we do.

ironically, it seems that i inadvertently attempt to fill the void of my own fruitless endeavors by immersing myself in art and film and music- drowning in the great achievements of others (albeit steeped with envy) in lieu of my own. when i was a child, i was a strange, industrious little thing. it wasn't unusual to find me alone in the basement, drawing in a closet for hours, sitting and collaging in a mess of magazine clippings, or fashioning large rube goldbergs from the ceiling with paper towel tubes, masking tape and marbles...

much the same goes for my career path (or lack thereof). i have so many interests, yet i can not for the life of me manage to find one singular thing to commit to. i suppose what most people do is to simply choose one; however, for the last five years i have been entirely unsuccessful at doing so. instead i have worked a streak of painfully unstimulating administrative positions, and like a series of unfortunate events, one has led to the next and the next andthenext. and so it goes, a small piece of my soul dies when i interview for a position and find myself stressing my strengths in customer service. even if it is true that this is where my "professional abilities" reside, in actuality i hate the customer. what's even worse is this sense of pride i have; the notion that i am entirely too intelligent and capable to be working in my position, yet at the same time feel technically unqualified to do much more. i worry that it's a blind confidence, even though my sense tells me not. regardless, it is purgatory. i am constantly questing for someone who can empathize...anyone...yet everyone seems have their heads screwed on straight and are at least geared in some conceivable direction. when i explain my woes, they all say the same: i think most people our age people feel that way. but if this is true, why then am i the only one constantly perturbed and at odds with my situations enough to vocalize it? are others just more comfortable settling? this just can't be.

to settle in any sense, for me, is disconcerting. it is so easy to fall into something, be it a relationship, a job, or simply a state of mind- and to find a sense of blind comfort and stability there. i think that this feeling of sufficiency is dangerous. i've just finished watching the film adaptation of milan kundera's novel the unbearable lightness of being, and am now unable to cease thought on this. the title alone has been on repeat in my head for the last 24 hours. unbearable lightness, unbearable lightness, in the shower, on the subway, at my work desk. the title is based on nietzsche's idea of "eternal return"; that our existence has occurred an infinite number of times and will continue to without end, suggesting that we are to live our lives with both the fundamental lightness and consequential weight of that knowledge. the implication in parts of the story is that the lightness, is in fact desirable- rationalizing "what happens but once, might as well not have happened at all. if we only have one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all." the sweet lightness is referenced when characters are at ease, alone, without worry or deep thought. in contrast, it is the significance and weight of our lives that mean the most: "the heavier the burden, the more real and truthful [our lives] become." a paradox maybe, but beautiful nevertheless.