And Will It Be Worth It, After All?

I am not myself.
Of course, that's the easy part of the problem.
The harder bit: who am I, then?
And why?

It's not like I've changed. I just feel different. Not myself. It's really quite distressing. Especially because I don't know why. It just happened. Like a camera shutter. Or the drop of a pen in a silent hospital ward.

Click.

It's not even depression. God knows I can recognize that feeling. This is different. Better. And worse.

I've spent the last hour and a half mulling this over. This feeling. This state of being. And I finally landed on a good medium of definition. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

There's nothing particularly wrong with Prufrock, he's just unhappy. And why shouldn't he be? What does he have to be happy about?

What does anyone have to be happy about?

I know that I should be thankful. I'm at college, getting my shot at a better life than my parents have. I don't want for much. I have food and a warm place to sleep. I have clothes, a phone, an iPod, and a nice MacBook with which I can complain for the reading pleasure of the world--should they choose to read it. I'm hopelessly in love with the girl of my dreams, and although we aren't physically together, we talk all the time and see each other every weekend. My family supports me 110%, and I'm getting AMAZING grades. Better than I ever got in high school.

So why am I so restless?

I think it's because I hate predictability. I hate a routine. Even though all the things on my to-do list are wonderful, the fact that I'm stuck in this rut kills me.

Monday-Friday: Go to class. Do homework. Eat. Sleep.
Friday-Sunday:Spend time with my girlfriend. Maybe do homework.

I like college, I do. It's certainly better than high school. And I love my girlfriend with all my heart. We both know that we're about two years and the cost of a ring from being engaged.

I just want more. I want to see more. I want to do more. I want to be more.

I see it coming for me, and it scares me. I see the middle-class existence. I see the white picket fence. It's around a house that's nice, but not anything spectacular.

The hardest part is that there's nothing wrong with that scenario. A large part of me wants it. It's just that little Prufrock in my ear, whispering. "What then? What will drive you once you have these things? Why will you be?"

I don't know.

Is it possible to have all that one needs? We talk about that in my Classics class. The Greeks thought that a constant state of want was a defining characteristic of humanity itself. In other words, our desire for more is what makes us human.

I'm not sure that I believe that. After all, that's why Penelope and Odysseus are kept apart for twenty years: the gods couldn't allow them to be too happy. And I certainly don't want to spend two decades away from Emily.

Maybe the Greeks meant to say that we are defined by our dissatisfaction. That, after all, could lead us to want more. It also takes into account Prufrock. He doesn't really want anything, he's just saddened at the limitations and length of his, a human, life.

And so, I resign myself to my own death, whenever it shall come for me. And until then, I will cherish every moment with those that I love, and revel in my dislike for those I do not love (for that is human, too). I will just live. After all, what else is there to do. I have a small part to play. Not many lines, and very little stage time. In the words of T.S. Eliot (once T. Stearns, like J. Alfred):

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.