8:36 p.m. - 2004-10-31
"I could go crazy on a night like tonight, when summer's trying to give up her fight..."
The windows are open, and I'm listening to the swishing sounds of cars on the interstate and hearing the slow drip of the rain on the metal shutters on my windows. Part of me just wants to stare out the window for the next three hours and watch the lights of the cars reflect on the wet pavement and wonder what stories the people in the cars would have to tell if anyone bothered to ask. It's only on nights like this, in between summer and winter, in between play and work, in between time-wasting activities, that I really feel lonely. Of course, if someone were here, I wouldn't necessarily want them to be talking to me or making noise or doing anything, but it's just the simple sense of another human soul nearby.
A little while ago, I was in my pseudo-study (okay, it's the dining nook, but the computer had to go somewhere), and I had the music on and a candle burning. I didn't think the music was very loud, because I was listening on the computer, and I didn't think the candle was giving off much scent or light, because it's a little candle. But when I got up and went in the bathroom, I realized I could smell the candle and see the flicker and hear the music. And of course, my warped and twisted mind starts turning this into some kind of universal-truth analogy....that no matter how small and insignificant we think we are, no matter how much we try to escape into our own little world, we cannot truly isolate ourselves. The things we say and do can be heard and seen by other people. That is not to imply that we have to care what they think. But we should remember that our quiet contemplation may affect someone else.
I hate it when I get like this. The little cynic inside my head reads the last paragraph and sneers. She tells me that I'm being cheesy and lame and trying to find some great truth somewhere because I can't seem to accept that there are not any great truths, only repetition of the same stories, the same problems, the same unoriginal thoughts which are cliche and not profound. But the other side of me, the hopeful side, wants to think that someday, something I do will matter. Will mean something. Maybe it already does. I just have a hard time believing it, I guess.
I suppose my current state of mind is just one more example of being out of sync with the world. Every time I think I have had some sort of epiphany, some sort of realization, some sort of moment of clarity, I read the things I used to write and the things other people are writing, and I just wonder....are we all insignificant? Are we stuck in our complacent little worlds? Are the people who are truly original the ones we are trying to silence, or are we afraid of them?
I think I'm just being a freak. It's something about the rain.