I once had a close friend whose method of disconnecting from things, eras in life, and people was much different than my own. He would put a lot of time and energy into building something awesome, then enjoy the fruits of his labor for years, only to one day kick it to the curb calling it a worthless piece of junk.
Nothing he called “junk” was junk at all. He simply couldn’t see how to bring the object, habit, or person into his next phase of life with him. Since he couldn’t form a plan to mix the old with the new, he automatically thought that the old must be gotten rid of. Labeling it as worthless was the only way he knew how to depart from it.
The gap in his reasoning evolved from his belief that by that point in his life he should know how to handle life. To save face from not knowing that more options for dealing with the situation existed, his ego assumed that his default method of departure was the only way to handle it.
Respectfully departing would involve feelings of loss, disappointment, evaluations of love, and many other emotions that, in order to save face, he had a strong urge to hide. These, more positive, goodbye emotions were replaced with disrespect. In justification for his actions, he pushed aside the good aspects to focus on the few things he felt resentful for. Since objects and people are never perfect, flaws pointed out can hold a lot of weight, especially when other people feel as if the flaws are the result of some sort of personal failure.
If something is junk, well then obviously someone wouldn’t think twice about getting rid of it. But a pattern of calling once-cherished things junk just to avoid facing the loss…is, well, sad. But people do what they do and it picking up the pieces gives them more things to do.
This is long over due, to the point where this should have been my first note. But I had the urge to pull Proust from my book shelf and read his opening paragragh/sentence to “Days of Reading” and I still so full heartily agree. I cannot say it better. There is just some nostalgic essence in remembering the many books I kept my nose in. I understand why they want children to read, more so than ever, because I can draw on experiences that I never actually experienced to aid my waking life.
I feel a sadness for it actually. I cannot get back to that place in my mind, I cannot revisit those stories as I first experienced them because I am no longer at that stage. I no longer escape life into fantasy because I’ve managed to merge my fantasy with real life and I am content. Therefore I seek no solace, no need to reach into another world of make-believe. Now I am merely interested in cool concepts and stories that guide me into deeper understanding and meaning into my actual daily existence. I am at one side excited about all I learn about in the real world beyond my home town, but at the same time depressed over my inability to connect with characters and events of stories long past. An entire world of existance taken away from me by time and experience. I’m forced to grasp to what I can, desperately for some peace of mind to avoid becoming like those jaded folks who tell me that fantasy world never existed in the first place. Oh believe me, it is real, I have my personality to prove it.
I have been to told to prepare myself for many possible situations, not because they will happen, but because things do happen to some people and I should make myself aware of signs to look for which indicate that I actually AM in that kind of situation…. and I should know how to handle them.