So You Want To Be an Existentialist
I'm kidding, of course. Nobody wants to be an existentialist. Existentialism is a very depressing philosophy grounded in too much reality and not having enough ephemeral joys or sorrows to distract you from the horrifying truth. If you find that you're an existentialist, you really need to get your heart broken or have a baby or at least go out dancing, fer crissakes. Existentialism sucks and is, after all, fairly pointless: if it's true that nothing you do really matters in any larger sense, it's just stupid not to be as happy as possible.
Does that make sense?
The trigger, I think, for this particular case of angst in my pangst is that a few weeks ago a high-school classmate contacted me about our upcoming 20-year reunion and mentioned that she'd also gotten in touch with the guy I had my first really serious crush on, who moved away before our junior year, and that he might come to the reunion. He is, I'm happy to say, successful and thriving; and also since escaping mid-80's, small-town Alabama, he's come out of the closet (I shudder to think what it would be like to be gay there and then, of all places and times). I'm delighted to hear he might come to the reunion, because - even aside from the crush - he was absolutely one of my favorite people. I'm also laughing heartily at myself because, hello: smart, funny, charming, thoughtful, handsome, athletic, and flirtatious? Come on!
But I wanted so bad to tell Mom. Mom would get such a kick out of this. She knew him, she was privy to all my feelings about him, she was there, and I feel as if something is missing and incomplete until I can tell her. It's really been troubling me. Maybe writing about it will help work it out, but seriously, I feel this gaping void until I can sit down with her and tell her this particular tidbit of information. It's like a machine that's being blocked from performing some vital routine function and is overheating and breaking gears or - seriously, it's really bothering me a lot.
I do feel a bit better writing about it, even though this probably makes no sense at all. But it's at times like this I envy religious people the ability to believe that their dead loved ones still exist somewhere else than just in the memories of the people who knew them. Even more, I envy the ability to believe that death isn't the end, because it doesn't matter that it's (presumably) decades off still, the idea of ceasing to exist and not being able to do anything about it just scares the living bejeezus out of me.
Which is about as self-absorbed and whiny as you can possibly get, I know. I'm sorry.
All this would be easier to cope with if only there were someone nearby whose shoulder I could rest my head on, somebody who would put an arm around me and hold my hand and make gentle sympathetic murmurings while I spill out all my stupid fears and sorrows. I have so many good friends, but no one like that (at least, not within a thousand miles). Goddammit, I want my mommy!
Existentialism is nothing if not lonely.