This story is unavailable.

“I never had a thought I didn’t weigh, and Mary never had a thought she didn’t say.” — impression by my boss of her dad

I like to think of the words burned onto your arm as graffiti on the wall of that longstanding philosophy of yours. A result of one of those temporary coups by your subconscious which arise with the right amount of chance and circumstance.

Can you imagine a hypothetical arrangement where you would be able to maintain some kind of social homeostasis? Does work, FOMO, and that maternal instinct make any equilibrium between social activity and solitude impossible? What’s the right ratio of breadth and depth for one’s relationships? Are all of our interactions with others just parts of alternating waves of selflessness and selfishness? What does it mean if we can or can’t successfully control the length and strength of those waves?

It’s a little disheartening that 200 years ago German scholars were already selling their souls in failed attempts to exorcise the pre-pathological-internet-use proto-FOMO that already existed. I think the only difference between FOMO and a ditch digger’s despair or an emperor’s ennui is that the promise of transcending the universal and immortal suffering we inflict on ourselves and one another is originating from technology even moreso than God or wealth.

Even if a lonely window cigarette at midnight is the only chance you have to catch your breath before wading back out into the overlapping essences radiating from all those other dreamers and lovers and fools in treasure town, as far as Sisyphean summits go that’s a pretty beautiful view.

For what it’s worth, this 宝贝儿 will be crying himself to sleep when you finally Irish goodbye the world forever. Working hard at this college paper only 12 people care about has only increased my admiration and respect for everything you’ve achieved. As I take my place in the pantheon of your former lovers who irrigated their personal growth with tears for a lost muse, I can’t help be recall (possibly erroneously) that you characterized such a development as a kind of curse you were afflicted with. I think that’s wrong. Rather, I believe it was we who were cursed…until we met you. Bless their hearts indeed.

P.S. Here’s what I hope happens with you and your babies next time you feel like crying outside Qmex:

(Except you don’t have to put the mask back on)

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Chris May’s story.