blast from the past

in order to keep myself busy for a while, i dug up my files of papers that i'd written in high school and typed a few of them on to the blog here. reading the eighteen year old version of myself writing was quite amusing. i was a good writer, if i say so myself! but just reading the way i wrote, or to put it better, hearing the voice of a young me, really made me feel a bit bittersweet. i sounded so idealistic and innocent, so intelligent and so confident but understated in approach to the world. there are certainly remmants of that personality still within myself, but my evolution has taken me away from that clean archetype. and the weight of years of experiences and disappointments, and yes, certainly heartbreak, has undoubtedly etched indelible scars into my skin of my soul. i've become pragmatic to the point where things don't seem worthwhile. the focus of my life has moved away from internal sources of happiness, like reading and football, to external sources of sometimes happiness, sometimes unhappiness, like relationships with imperfect girls and the monotony of a job that doesn't truly exploit my talents. how did i go from a guy that was sought my most of the ivies to a single guy hopelessly waiting for love and still living in a one bedroom apartment with two cats? and yet i still feel hopeful. even despite the wistful despair at seeing my own transformation. really, hearing my young voice makes me feel that i deserve so much better than i have, and i now wonder what i can possibly do to change that. does the life of an adult necessarily demand this hardening, this pragmatization, this realization that we march towards death, and the likelihood of internal sources of pleasure and happiness becoming evermore fleeting and rare? i also wonder if i will ever find a girl who is both beautiful and intelligent and who will love me completely. does this girl exist? must i be dependent on external sources of happiness since i've seemingly exhausted my own innocence, except perhaps during rare moments of silliness and immaturity, at which time i'm usually told that i'm being weird or that i have a strange sense of humor? nowadays i'm most happy when i'm reading, because reading is something that i've always loved, ever since i was a boy, according to my own memories and what my dad has told me. also, reading provides me an escape from all the despair of mundane life. even for all my reminiscing tonight, i feel relatively good. the goal of life is to keep on living, because one simply never knows exactly what to expect. i think back to a year ago. i flew out to san diego for a 24 hour trip to visit cherise on valentine's day. it was a final hurrah, a last ditch effort at what i thought was worthwhile. of course it was a revelatory trip, so much more as a result of what was not expressed as what was. and that seems to be my predilection, to attract those that are incapable of expression. or maybe that's the grave that i've dug, that my own love for words, as i've developed through my reading, my love for expresssion, which i do through my everyday speech and writing, has created certain unusual expectations that are not likely to be fulfilled by the modern woman, who has been braindirtied by society to be independent, sovereign, self sufficient. conversely, perhaps my hatred for the way i was raised, by a mother and father who, although they undoubtedly did love me, never, not once, ever said so or gave a hug or a kiss or a simple "i love you" has made me particularly sensitive to that condition, as i consider it a deficiency, so that i cannot trust or stand anyone who fits that personality type. and then i wonder to myself whether, at the age i'm at, i'm still in the process of figuring out who i am and what i need and why this process is still taking place when others seem to have figured everything out so long ago. am i really that complex? or is it that i've been that ignorant of myself for so long? or maybe i'm self-deceiving, a quality that i absolutely loathe in others, because for me it's dishonorable to lie to others, but downright detestable to lie to oneself. i don't know. anyway, to the extent that i continue to have free time at home, i'd like to continue typing in old papers on to this blog. besides being entertaining, hopefully, they may help me to find my true self, or at least recover a part of a more innocent and pure version of me. and now, since it's late, i'm going to have some dinner, some leftovers of tilapia, rice and beans from last night. and then i'll finish the night with some reading, because that sounds like a nice way to end the evening before going to bed. by the way, the snow ended last night and left us with 16 inches of snow, on top of the already 28.5 on the ground, officially making this the snowiest winter on record in philadelphia. when the snow eventually melts, hopefully it can wash away all the uncertainty with it.