Lost

My life for the past week has been spent waiting for today. Now that it is finally here, all I want to do is curl up in the corner and cry. If only I remembered how to cry. I want someone who truly knows me to put their arms around me and remind me of who I am. But I have no one. Each waking, pain filled second that has passed here; I have looked forward to being released. To once again have a world beyond this room, to move without dragging my IV beside me, to lay in the sunlight...to talk to people. Now, somehow, the prospect terrifies me. I am sure that as soon as they discharge me, I will walk outside and stand there staring, unable to move. Incapable of returning to the world. I feel so lost. How can I possibly go back to a life here when I barely have one? The truth is, there is no one in this city that knows where I am or what has happened to me. There is no one who I can count as anything more than an acquaintance. Somewhere, in a small white room, I forgot how to be lost. Once, the idea was thrilling. Life was comprised of 'scenic detours' and uncharted waters. It was how I thrived. Now, there is nothing more terrifying. I am still counting down the hours until the hospital lets me go, but now I am not sure whether it is with excitement or dread. This is the last place I want to be, but what happens when I have nowhere else to go?

I don't remember how to exist...

What is Art?

One of my...friends (for lack of a better word) recently sent me something he wrote and asked how I felt about it. Touched and confused by his wanting me to read it--writing is always difficult for me to share with people I know personally--it made me think about the purpose of writing. He talked about how there are so many people offering empty advice and preaching to their readers, saying that, despite his many incredible experiences, he has no advice, no important life lessons, advice or caution to share with people. He wrote about not knowing the answers, and, more importantly, not trying to pretend like he does. The honesty was refreshing, and it made me reconsider why people write at all.

Whether it is technology, social media or whatever else, self-expression has changed drastically in the past few years. Once upon a time, art was about sharing a piece of yourself with the world. It was about saying something. Something real. Nowadays, I cannot help but feel unsatisfied with pop culture. In a way, it seems to me that this is a cultural reflection more than anything else. In the United States especially, life and success are centered on what other people think. People strive to get into the best schools, get the best jobs, make the most money...why? Personally, this appears to be for social approval and status more than anything else. Over half of the students at my university study economics or business, and you'll have a nearly impossible time trying to convince me it is because they have a passion for the subjects. Most of them even admit from the beginning that they just want to make money.

But what is money?

A little piece of paper with a number on it?

What is the approval of others?

Pop songs, rather than telling stories or expressing feelings or observations about life are, more than anything, just catchy rhythms and repetitive lyrics.

People post every photograph they take on Facebook. In fact, half the time when I travel, I am utterly convinced that people are taking pictures for Facebook. Why? For the reactions of their friends. To display to others how exciting and fun their lives are. To show off what they have seen and done.

Writing has changed also. The most popular articles seem to float around on Buzzfeed, but are nothing of actual substance. They are instead cheap, easy and short articles, tailor made to be posted and shared as much as possible.

In reality, it is impossible to be too critical of these things. In today's society, with everything literally at our fingertips as soon as we open the internet, this is one of the only ways to make money with writing or music. I am equally guilty as anyone else of whoring out my photographs on Facebook. I would be lying if I said that I did not enjoy the idea that my pictures show how exciting my life has been, or that I did not compare my online image to that of others.

Yet somewhere along the way, I stopped taking pictures for other people, and started taking them for myself, or not at all. In the end it means more to experience something, and to have a picture to take you back to the moment, than to constantly be trying to prove yourself to others. Finally, I've found the same beauty in writing. For a long time, I had forgotten the love I once had for breathing life into a blank page, for creating a world. I got lost trying to prove myself and compare myself to others. My friend's article, while thought provoking and well written, with just the right combination of thought, anecdotes and humour. He made me consider why people write, especially about travel. I wholeheartedly agree that the numbers of people preaching about travel are nauseating. I'm finally realising it is because they are rarely about what travel has truly meant to the authors, but instead are constantly twisting themselves into articles about other people--what they should and should not do, how they should do them. In a way, I felt like he fell into the trap he was trying to avoid. His article, as good as it was, was still written for other people.

     What happened to actually saying things? Why does it seem so impossible to escape this culture, which constantly craves the attention and approval of others?

     My new goal is the rediscover my love of writing. More importantly, it is to write for myself--honestly, freely, and away from the approval of others.

     My life is for me, no one else.

From the Hospital

A girl sits alone on the edge of a plain white bed, wishing she was anywhere else in the world. This place feels more like a prison than a hospital. Sitting requires about as much energy as she can muster. She wants to cry but cannot. Whether it is because of the years she spent teaching herself not to, or because she does not have enough energy or moisture left in her body is anyone's guess. She is scared, trapped, frustrated and sick, but, more than anything else, she feels overwhelmingly alone.

After intense stomach pain, she had finally convinced herself to go to a walk in clinic, just to make sure there was nothing serious. A quick visit ended up being five days minimum.

In the beginning there was only pain. Pain so blinding she could not read more than a page of her favorite book, or listen to an entire song without wanting to throw her ipod across the room. Somehow, it had driven every single word in her spanish vocabulary out of her head. It was doubtful she could even have communicated in English. 

When she had finally calmed down enough to communicate with a translator, they asked her who they could contact to tell where she was. Flatmates? Family? Friends? She had not realized that there was no one. She could have stayed for days and it was doubtful that anyone would notice. Acquaintances were all she had.

Somehow, before that moment, travelling alone had always seemed easy. Continents, countries, cities and landscapes flashed by, some shared some savored alone. That was life--that was her life. She was in love with it. Of course there were moments that had felt lonely and intimidating, but that was all part of the adventure. The thrill of success is non-existent without doubt and uncertainty. Yet it had never pressed upon her from all sides like this. There is no one. If she did not wrestle with herself enough to resolve to go to the doctor, there was a decent chance she would not even be alive. There was no safety net. No room for errors. And she had never noticed.

Finally, now, a smile had returned to her lips and words to her tongue. She jokingly called the nurses vampiristas as they drew more blood, and talked with them about Spain, their families and their lives.  Her back ached from spending too much time in bed, and she spent hours sitting by the window, breathing the fresh air and willing the sunlight to beam through the building beside the hospital to kiss her skin. Last night, when they brought her soup for dinner, she almost started crying of happiness when she found noodles in the bottom. It's the little things.

Every day, she fights to remember why she is here, and why she has chosen this life. Is it worth it? Should she take her insurance company's offer to fly home? Of course not. This is the life she chose, this is something she cannot bear to lose. No matter what...