What follows is something that happens to bloggers from time to time. You start writing on a topic, and pretty soon you’re simply exploring your own thoughts. No one cares, but it’s out there now. A public diary of your brain taking a shit. Mental diarrhea. A diarhy.
Someone once told me that you never truly know someone until they do the thing that you never thought they would do, the thing you never expected they were capable of.
The infinite space inside our 8-inch skulls is a no man’s land to all save ourselves. Ask me a question and get an answer of my choosing. And yet, please ask me the question. I need you to.
I’ve long believed that knowing yourself is a high virtue, a self-perceptive compass that points to the true North of lives that can’t be planned. But that peaceful sense of direction is a cheap emotional salve. Satisfaction—some call it love—comes when someone else knows you like you know yourself. They see you. Why does this matter? I’ll bet no one knows.
Are we alone? We. Alone. The words don’t mesh. But we do all feel it, a need for affirmation. It is an inherent desire amongst all men (and women, who deserve to be treated as good as men even though they have periods). I guess what I’m saying, if I’m saying anything, is that I don’t know if we can be known or not. All I know is that Up in the Air already figured it out.
Ryan Bingham: If you think about it, your favorite memories, the most important moments in your life… were you alone?
Jim Miller: No, I guess not.
Ryan Bingham: Hey, come to think of it, last night, the night before your wedding, when all this shit is swirling around in your head, weren’t you guys sleeping in separate bedrooms?
Jim Miller: Yeah, Julie went back to the apartment, and I was just by myself in the honeymoon suite.
Ryan Bingham: Kind of lonely, huh?
Jim Miller: Yes, it was pretty lonely.
Ryan Bingham: Life’s better with company.
Jim Miller: Yeah.
Fuck The Space Between, right?