It used to be the ending that gave me a hard time, but somehow now it’s the beginning. I guess I’ll dive right in.
I suppose I’ll start with this; some of us aren’t meant for notoriety. And I think that most of that “some of us” may impact the heaviest change. And I’d say here normally, “well isn’t that a damn shame, that the best aren’t given the credit.” And I’d say, “society, isn’t that just... fucked?” And I’d think some more on it, just for a pause, indicated perhaps by more ellipsis, continuing on about how I’m somehow considered part of this noble, humble, not notorious group, and I’d recognize (in text), suddenly how until just now, I didn’t realize how notorious came to be from notoriety (or vice versa), and how sad that was, and I’d continue on in a run-on sentence as I usually did, summing it up with a lack of point (coincidentally [or not, don’t believe me], for style over format [per usual] as I do here). Ah, sweet, active self-reflection.
But now I recognize the Salinger-esque, staccato stumblings-over-feelings, to be those of which they really are—ramblings of a desperate, depressed drunk. That’s not to say I’m Sober Sally writing over here (**wave**) in the present (and here’s where I’d insert a casual “but I digress,”) however, I don’t feel intense pangs of self-destructive longing all the time anymore. I’m almost embarrassed to make the admission here and now, where I’d used to beam with romantacizing-depressive-pride in my words for boldness, gumption and candor.
Ah, sweet, active self-reflection. We evolve. Don’t we? I never sought the attention, no spotlight on me, but notoriety, well... Webster defines that as something I don’t give a fuck enough about to Google... You don’t know it, you feel it.
And for some reason, brought on like a flare, in a memory, I’m 20 in my apartment (at the time) with a friend I wouldn’t know much longer, smoking pot out of one of the craziest and most interesting glass pieces I’d ever seen. I’d been tasked to house it in its case in my closet while his dorm was being whatevered—inspected, or perhaps paranoid-ly he’d made the request. Though, I was sorrily disappointed when they went home to their owner. That, all prior to the chaos turned Salinger-esque, self-deprecating sympathy I attribute to the aforementioned why... Well, I wonder why now that feeling all so quickly escalated back.
I knew then I guess how I wouldn’t be notorious. Not knew, but felt. Often we overlook and suppress feelings for so-called rationality, yet now I’m beginning to understand often feelings can be much more powerful than what we think we know. I felt weak, and so I was, then I grew again, and shrank. Shrank so small no one could see me, and I felt nothing.
Distance from that, I thought, would help. Love, perceived or otherwise, I dreamt, tried to believe, for sure would save the tortured souls in both of us. But as in all great beginnings, and clichés, there comes the moment for greater-ness or close. That glass piece wasn’t so original or unique after all, not after talking to new and different souls; I’d found it was pretty neat but not unheard of. And I still wanted it; maybe want, still. It’s notoriety rang wide, but left something to be desired, Salinger-esque.
I was going to end here, as I probably should, (I know, though somehow I feel...) but I’d rather satisfy with the answer to the question everyone has—I don’t know. I hope the best indeed get the credit, but in the case that they don’t (inevitable), well, there’s no solace in any of it. But it doesn’t have to be fucked. The memory can come and make you smile and it still hurt. You are fine feeling but not knowing. You can change and grow and connect. (That’s what counts, what scares me, the connection. That’s the ticket these days. Hardy-har. Lol. What-have-you.) I know what I feel and nothing else—nothing else truly can be known for sure, can it?