Musings, or some such thing

I have, thus far, found myself incapable of writing this time around in Nepal. I have sat down a number of times to write about my experiences, my reflections, my thoughts… all that good stuff. But for whatever reason nothing cohesive has come out of it. I’ve tried to write about that evening commute with goats destined for a Dashain dinner, the roving pack of no fewer than 20 dogs (three of which belong to our household) that set up some sort of orgy, trash eating midnight love/hate fest on our corner for a few weeks. How they appeared. Barked. Spared. Ate. And mated their way through the witching hour. How they then had a meeting or convention and decided to go their separate ways. One gets more street cred as a loner I assume. About the cab driver who waits outside our door every morning, because one day last week we didn’t feel like hassling with the tempo, and now we feel too guilty (since he’s waiting for us and waving as walk out the door) to not accept his ride. About it all.  So I’ll write about something else.

An old friend died this week. Killed himself. Facebook told me so. This isn’t the first time social media has informed me of the death of a loved one. It’s not the first time I’ve contemplated writing a goodbye on that person’s “wall.” But I’ve not yet been able to bring myself to do so. I judge not those that do. In fact I think it is probably a healthy way of dealing with grief/sadness/longing. Missing. But for me, do I not do it because I’m agnostic and don’t know what I believe, so question whether the person will receive my message? I doubt it. People write on someone’s wall for themselves, for the family, as a means of expressing one’s feelings, as an expression of love. To say “hey, I care.” My guess is that people rarely actually think that the person who is gone is checking their Facebook notifications to see who noticed they were no longer there. We all know.

My grandmother had a stroke this month. She doesn’t have a Facebook page. I called her. Her voice was confused but beautiful. I rarely talk to my best friends, to my parents, to the people I love and care about most in this world. But I know what missing their voices feels like. It’s a physical longing. I feel a need to clear my throat at the mere thought of it. Yet I don’t make the effort I am forever thinking of making. I regularly question if our last interaction was definitively our last, and hope I didn’t fuck something up in the process. I pray to an amorphous thing. I pray to a nothing. A non-being. A non-thing. I pray to myself. The conversations I have with myself are prophetic, the outcomes clear. The conversations I have with myself are meaningless, forever unknowing. How can I know myself when my voice in my head sounds nothing like my voice on an answering machine? Do others know me better than I know myself because they actually hear me? Because they can take a step back and look at my life in a way that I never can because I will always be too entrenched in “me” to do so? Perhaps. I hope they tell me so. Not in a “keep on, keeping on” way, but a “DO SOMETHING FOR FUCK’S SAKE” kinda way.

For once in my life I am in a place that I never want to leave. I love what I am doing. I care to that point past anger, past everything. To dedication. I love who I am with. I love this place. I am inspired by my co-workers daily. Nay, hourly. I leave in three weeks. I am at a loss. When you realize what it feels like to be full, to be fulfilled, that hollowness you’ve felt before becomes even less palatable.

I am inspired daily. I am heartbroken hourly. I am frustrated momentarily. I am motivated… well, I am just motivated. Why can’t I just stay? Just work? Just be? I know all too well how my friend felt when he took his own life. That feeling of just needing the hurt, the pain, to stop at whatever cost. Incapable of considering the feelings of others. Not selfish. Truly believing you are selfless. The desperation. But he was amazing. He was kind. He was brilliant. He had everything to offer this world. He just, was. But it doesn’t matter. That kind of pain has no logic. I understand that too well. But I have to believe that the opposite must be true as well. That there is a joy that has no logic. That exists regardless of the reality one faces. That happiness is unquantifiably possible. I am going on a search for that.