meandering musings

Sometimes I feel old. Not simply the sensation that comes with realizing that you're a senior, and children you babysat are freshmen. I feel old straight down to my soul. And sometimes I wonder if maybe what I feel isn't just heaviness, and then I wonder, what's the difference? Sometimes I feel as though my bones will break with the effort of moving, and it's not that I don't want to move as much as it is that I cannot force myself to focus. I think I live in a world submerged beneath that of most people's. I entertain thoughts that most people would never admit to knowing in polite company, and the price of deep thinking is isolation.


When you live in a world of heavy shadows, any drop of lightness you find is precious, be it some joke or some line of poetry that resonates within your soul. And sometimes, people can share your light, bouncing it back to you. Back and forth it goes until you're both lit up with the joy you've shared.

But sometimes your drop of lightness is met with blank stares. The phrases and melodies that told pieces of your story are meaningless to other people. And your delicate joy is broken against the wall that will always surround you, because they do not understand. And so you hoard drops of joy to yourself, knowing that no one will understand why they are so precious to you. They do not know your story, they do not care. You try to convince yourself that it is enough to keep these to yourself.

And yet, I think that being understood is the key in sharing joy. And I think that joy, by its very nature, is meant to be shared. It does no good when it is kept to itself; its purpose is to bring people closer together. Laughter, love, and that particular thrill that comes from surviving danger, all are offshoots of joy. There is nothing more unifying than laughter. Nothing more intertwining than love. Nothing so potent as escaping peril with a friend. It is painful to live in a world without joy.

Or perhaps it is not so much painful as it is the exact opposite. Without joy, sorrow has no light to cast its shadow against. Laughter has no canvas on which to paint itself. Love has no soil in which to grow. Without joy, sorrow seeps into the bones and begins to suffocate the soul, surrounding it until it is, quite simply, numb. Sorrow has its place, but dwelling in it leads only to an endless vale of despair.


Despair seems only to come when one is isolated. Would King Theoden have succumbed to Grima's whisperings if he had not been - or felt himself to be - entirely alone? Would Denethor have spiraled into madness if he had not locked himself away with the Palantir? Would Frodo have made it to Mount Doom without Sam?

Companions are not only desirable; they are necessary. Friends keep us from giving up when we've fallen, help us forward when we falter, and to encourage us when we grow tired. But in order for friendship to be what it was designed to be, there must be understanding. There can be no true union between anything less than equals. You cannot be friends with someone who does not understand your story and your heart.

However, too often, I find that it is nearly impossible to find such people. Some appear to understand or care for you, but love more dearly the image of you that they possess in their mind, or the security of your affection. Some love you dearly but do not care much for your thoughts, not understanding that you are the sum of the things you have pondered, the books you have consumed, and the music you have drowned in.

I cannot be divorced from my ideas; they are what make me who I am. If the price of my identity is a lifetime of misunderstanding and rejection, at least I will have lived as myself. I try to pretend that is good enough.