The Dreams of Youth

Reading my entries two years back I realise I used to be a lot more introspective. There is plenty of material on this blog to surmise what kind of person I am, but it keeps changing, like the colours of water in the sun. Most recently I think I have been doing too much, experiencing too much, compared to my freshman and sophomore year when I had ample time to think, sit and wonder about everything that’s going on, what a turn of phrase means, what a text means, to feel, to have my heart broken, and to have it mended again.

For it is proven that there is no feeling as deep as heartache, and no introspection to be afforded when one is actually happy. Like I am now. I cannot empathise with probably a good majority of the human race in their feelings and unrequited love. I cannot write things that cater to universal feelings.

People in love tend to trip along happily oblivious of most of the world and its quirky inhabitants. There is little need (unless you are on prozac) to rub into other people’s faces just how happy you are. It is only when you are unhappy that you feel the need to tell all and sundry, to feel that everyone is right there in the same depressing situation as you.

I miss the days when I pondered over other people’s actions and what sort of signals they sent. When I rolled words around in my head to distill their full intellectual and consolatory and artistic value. I kept mainly to myself, I think, and didn’t tell anyone (at cornell) about any of the anxiety in my head. I think I was really detached from my class and just sort of doing my own thing, assuming nobody was capable of getting it (I wonder if I still think that way). It would not be at all unfair to say that the people in my class had very mundane, grounded mindsets, very logical thought processes and little to no interest in good literature, good music, good poetry. Essentially, things that provide a reliable antidote to any sort of heartsickness one may have. Then again, given what I understand of their philosophy, I don’t even know if they are the sort to experience heartsickness at all. For there are a great many within my acquaintance who simply suppress any feelings they do not know how to cope with and who can no longer make the distinction between what emotions they wear in public and what emotions they actually feel.
***
Sir, I don’t always understand poetry.

You don’t always understand it? Timms, I never understand it.But learn it now, know it now,and you will understand it, whenever.

I don’t see how we can understand it.

Most of what poetry’s about hasn’t happened to us yet.

But it will, Timms, it will.

And when it does,you’ll have the antidote ready.

Grief, happiness,even when you’re dying.

We’re making your deathbeds here, boys.
***
I wonder what sort of poetry would be at my deathbed.

I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
And walking up the long beach all alone
I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
As you and I once heard their monotone.

Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me
The cold and sparkling silver of the sea —
We two will pass through death and ages lengthen
Before you hear that sound again with me.

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