when his days kind of run together and he can go to bed realizing that nothing really happened that day. Is he dead? Is he dead to people? He's just curious. Being just a memory is pretty much being dead. Are other people dead to him. Some are. Those people from high school, they're dead. The only real difference, he thinks, is that technically there's still the slight possibility of running into them again. But then that's just awkward because he's not very good with those types of situations.
He sits in his chair all day wondering what to do for class, how to make lesson plans and syllabi, how to enforce rules, how to treat everyone at the office. He's the youngest one here. Except for that other guy. He's going through a big transition period in his life. It's like it hasn't dawned on him that when he steps foot back on home soil he's stepping into... well, he doesn't know. He reads things all the time about people growing and changing. About adventures or bad days. He wonders, did his parents ever write about how they were growing and changing? Or is that just a phenomenon of our generation? He wonders if he'll always talk about growth. Even when he's a grandpa. Will he say, Today was a tough day, but at least I grew.?
He sometimes wishes he could justify just doing things. Or maybe it's that he actually needs to learn how. When he sits on public transportation, he just watches. Is he making any kind of human progress by watching? When he teaches, he just struggles. Is he preparing for anything in the future by struggling? Is he preparing a future poet or engineer or other genius whose English foundation will be essential? He goes home and eats. He does pushups. Then he gets in bed. He gets in bed to watch a movie or read, or just be. What kind of growing is he doing then?
And how freaking big is he supposed to grow, anyway?!
He wonders if he's dead. It's not that he feels dead. But he's a little confused. If this is life, then why is it so... drab? He thinks that being creative, productive, ambitious -- that those are the signs of life he sees in others that he should have. But then, he thinks about that. He says to himself, even they only appear alive to me when they flit through my experience. If they never did, they'd still be dead. And, he figures, if they stopped flitting through and just decided to stay in his experience for a while, he figures their "lives" might appear just as drab sometimes.
So. What is he supposed to do? Go be spiritual? Is he supposed to go write a poem or a song, or draw something, or imagine his dream home or a shirt that he'd like to try and make? Is he supposed to spend the next hour trying to make a plausible plan for his little, supposed, and expected future? Is he supposed to just accept what he considers dull as his life? He compares, yes, but not only to those who seem to have a less dull life. He also compares to those whose existence seems rather mundane because of its exceeding seeming monotony and desperateness. Remember that woman who sits on the curb on your way to work? He does. Her life looks awful. He doesn't think he'd find that meaningful or enjoyable or worthwhile or anything like that. But he wonders--does she think about growth? Does she imagine she's heading anywhere? Does she consider her existence drab? Maybe she should go write a poem.
He doesn't really know anything. Except, that sometimes he gets hungry. Sometimes he gets dirty and wants to feel clean. Sometimes sleepiness overwhelms him and he must rest. Sometimes stress releases a darkness that few see. Sometimes loathing pricks at his upper lip, and other times inspiration and compassion swell his little heart muscle. He figures those things are true enough. But what do they mean? Will they let him really die--not only to become a memory, but die as a mass of flesh--leaving something behind? Some kind of story or legend or whatever you want to call it? Is that what he'd want to breath for anyway? He seems to recollect a few existences distinguished who left a legend behind, but never seemed to think their days were very special or worth much.
He figures everything should come around to God. He doesn't like that it always does. He blames it on the way he's been raised. He doesn't like it when he imagines the advice people would give him to the things that he says and thinks, were they ever to give him any. Is it that he's too stupid to see how obvious and practical that advice is? Or is it that he thinks he's following it but... obviously not? Is it that he doesn't agree? Or, could it be? Could he really hate the advice? Hate the thought of doing what they say? Is it that he wants it to be harder? That he has to earn something? Is it that most of the minutes he's ever been conscious he's been focused on something outside of himself, and that the relatively few minutes he's spent musing about all the other minutes make him think that his life is just not quite right? He doesn't find it comforting that he's not the only one wondering when he'll awake and be alive. He thinks, if this is how life is, it's... drab. But, is he supposed to just try to do stuff all the time? Is he supposed to get as busy as he can so that at least the drabness seems bigger?
What does it mean. He asks. Knowing that his current thoughts won't really be repeated until the next time he says What does it mean. Where is the life in that?
Nothing changes. That's what's funny. It's funny because as much as he wants to think, what good does it ever do him? Nothing changes. No, it's not that he's dead. It's... He thinks a moment. Maybe it's... maybe he's afraid. of trying to live and failing.