It has been a very turbulent six months for me, since I started my formal education here in the United States. I came here on the fourth of August 2015, previously never having set foot outside the country I was born in.
Needless to say, America was… new to me. There were so many things here that I didn’t understand. Specially how effortless so many things were. It felt weird, having everything you could ever want at your fingertips. Everything was so easy. So ridiculously easy. I really enjoyed my first two months here.
Then something happened, I don’t know what.I didn’t feel very energetic like I did when I started out. I started skipping classes. Became lazy to the point where I only ate from vending machines because I didn’t want to walk to the cafeteria. I started spending my days in my room, alone. I played video games a lot. I don’t know why. It felt so comfortable. I was getting tired of adapting to this country. Everything was so different from what I was used to. The food, being one of them. I was disappointed, in a sense. The wonder that had hit me was now gone, replaced by cynicism. But the video games hadn’t changed. So I hid in the things I knew. I stopped meeting people. I was either always in my room, or working. I spent money on things I didn’t want, bought things I would never use. I don’t know what had come over me.
Time went on, and finals came. I didn’t do well. I don’t know why I was surprised.
Then, on my winter break, one of close friends passed away. I didn’t take the news to heart, because it seemed like I was living a dream anyway; nothing was real. So I couldn’t take the news for what it was.
After that, all through my winter break, I would go to bed in my uncle’s house and think of what kept me alive.
Death is a strange thing. It’s the only thing life promises to you, the only thing that will happen, for sure if you were ever born. I feel as if death is a sort of ground. Like life is something that happens to people until they can get back to the normal state of being dead. We are dead until we are born, and after we are born we will die.
But if death is so normal and so sure, do I fear it much?
I don’t think I do, really. I am perfectly fine with dying. I do not want to leave a legacy that will be remembered because time erases all, and we are naught but grains of sand in this beach we call the universe. We are not special. I am aware of this so I do not fear dying.
However, I realized that even though I wouldn’t mind dying, there were things that kept me alive. I want to be alive for so many things, my parents being at the top of the list. I want to be alive to eat the food I love. I want to be alive to meet wonderful, wonderful people. I want to be alive to talk, to discuss philosophy, books, ideas, anything. I want to be alive to experience love. I want to be alive for these small, trivial things. To feel the wind in my hair when it blows in the spring. To see the orange and yellow of fall. To smell the breath of the fresh morning air, sometimes when I actually wake up on time.
My faith in humanity doesn’t keep me alive. Nor does my passion for science, to know more about the world. I am perfectly fine if I die not knowing how the world works. The ultimate questions don’t keep me alive. Art doesn’t keep me alive. There’s nothing grand that supports my existence. I am alive because of the small things. The small earthly pleasures of a human being. I think it’s pretentious to think that something you cannot imagine is what keeps your blood pumping.
It was difficult. It is difficult. Living. Existing. I think everyone goes through a similar existential crisis at some point in their lives. The only way someone could get away from it is by being blissfully ignorant of the meaninglessness of our existence. Shame I read too much as a child.
I do not think I am sad. I am quite happy, yes. It’s just sometimes it’s hard to sleep at night. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying it is.
Pens and Keys 