Ceaseless, Restless, Needless

I’ve been thinking a lot more than usual. I could try to attribute it to the fact that I’ve felt like ever since I graduated from high school 4 years ago, I’ve been ushered from place to place, always on to the next new place. It’s just a lot once you have a second to think, and it seems like right now the thinking is ceaseless. It hurts. It hurts to think this much and constantly be occupied with thoughts about myself, my life, my family, all the people who I’ve developed relationships with and have gotten to know over the years, all the people around me carrying on with their interesting lives here in NYC, or the ones who have pain in their eyes, a relentless exhaustion, or the ones who are fighting for their dreams… it’s a lot. I watched Perks of Being a Wallflower a few weeks ago and keep thinking about these lines:

Charlie: There is so much pain. And I don’t know how to not notice it.
Dr. Burton: What’s hurting you?
Charlie: No, not… not me. It’s them! It’s… it’s everyone. It never stops. Do you understand?

I feel sometimes like I’m so enveloped in my head, then I sit on the metro for a moment and look around, keenly attuned to all the facial expressions from the people. The diversity, the range of ages, gender, backgrounds, wealth, education, and more. And for some reason, amidst it all, I notice the pain, the stories, the emotions, and they are painted from my imagination of what these people’s lives are. And I can’t stop thinking, thinking about them, and me, and those people I’ve met in the past years who I think of and feel a wrenching pain in my chest, one that roots from the thought that I’m attached to these past moments. I’m attached to the people who I worked with and who took a chance on me, who made my experience great, who I’m eternally grateful for teaching me and allowing me to grow. How will I ever be able to show gratitude enough? I’m a fleeting thought in their minds, but somehow, I am constantly thinking of how life is a road trip where you’ll never see that eccentric woman you met at the bus stop — you’ll simply remember the tidbits of knowledge and empathy she reminded you of for in a brief moment, blurred as a car breezing down a highway.

Then I think about music, and it’s a whole other world. It’s a world of intimate pain, a window into the pain of people singing and baring their thoughts and eloquently verbalizing the pain I didn’t even know existed inside me. It’s scary. And it’s even scarier that music, my sole savior and confidant in my life, may be leading to a deeper sadness within me. Was it that fateful moment I came across American Idiot that changed my life? Was I ruined but uplifted and enlightened all at the same time because I was introduced to the canvas of painful storytelling that Billie Joe Armstrong painted to the world? For almost half of my entire life, I can still date the impact that Green Day had me as a 10 year old. I was a geeky fifth grader who somehow fell in love with this band, and how? There was a visceral connection — I didn’t understand the lyrics or the metaphors completely but I connected to the pain crooning from his voice. It hurts. I’m just spitting out random thoughts and can’t continue writing because the thoughts keep on flooding in my head, my chest tightens and my breath shortens. Not much has changed from myself at 10 years old. Is that quite terrible or what? Just simply a facet of life and who I am?