Thursday, August 27, 2009

Contemplations of past and present loves.

I sit on my deck with Into the Wild in one hand and a Djarum clove in the other. As I read the pages I have become so enchanted by lately, I begin to contemplate the smoking black stick resting between my middle and pointer fingers. It crackles when I inhale, and this is the only instance I can think of outside of pains or cramps when I am actually aware of my insides. I envision the smoke's trail through my lips, down my throat, and into my lungs. They inflate like balloons, and relax again to release some of the smoke, the rest to be left in there forever. A final, not as pink as it should be, living, resting place. I suppose humans are given living resting places as well- a breathing earth that houses our remains until there are none left, and a spiritual nirvana to dwell in for the eternity that follows your final breath, if you believe in that sort of thing. Thinking about all of this, I am reminded as to why I used to be addicted to the white, cheaper cousins of this sweet-tasting cigarette of sorts. The more pleasant a situation, the more cigarettes I smoked. Getting to know beautiful people in front of local coffee shops, enjoying particularly sweet green tea or perfectly brewed African coffee, driving in the fall down highway 96 with my windows down and the most moving songs I know playing as loudly as my car speakers would allow, being let into the souls of friends on various porches, particularly that of the Carriage House, visions of myself pushing out brilliant novels, going through packs and packs of Camel Lights just to continue the flow of my words. Before I knew it, all this dreaming and priceless experiences led to an unbreakable habit that I always expected I'd be stronger than. Having since quit, I remember these feelings- but I cannot achieve them. It does not even really feel right to seek them out.

I don't finish the clove that I have lit, the words I'm reading are just as beautiful without it, and about a quarter of the way through, my lungs ask me to stop. I put it out in an ashtray on a porch like I've done hundreds of times before and place my Polaroid bookmark in its place, this time somewhere around page 143. Evaluations of Chris McCandless linger in my mind. When he was out in Alaska all by himself surrounded by nothing but the wilderness his soul longed for, was he aware of everything? His past, present, future, the animals surrounding him, his insides, his desires. Were these things aligned when he reached this destination he'd been looking forward to and working toward for years? Was anything not in its right place? Chris McCandless kept an avid journal during most of his travels, and one of the last things he wrote before he died was "Happiness is only real when shared." I was happy then. I truly was. But as I get older, like McCandless, I have more and more trouble relating with those around me. And I enjoy more and more time by myself- thinking, listening, reading. The difference is, I have someone to share all of that with. Someone I want to share all of that with. I wonder if I am where McCandless would have been, had he taken Carine with him on the last leg of his journey, or accepted the company of the last man to give him a ride.

Happiness is only real when shared, but only when I have the company of the person with whom I share everything- am I happy.

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