foreign countries and capital letters

Foreign countries are appealing.

When life gets rough, tedious, unbearable, dull, or meaningless you can “fix” your current disposition by…what else?...escaping. Grab that weathered green army duffel (whose rugged image makes you feel cultured, experienced, and tragically wise) and haphazardly throw together a pile of those rudimentary items that you’ll need abroad. Five things, perhaps: your toothbrush, a handful of decrepit green dollar bills, a pocket-atlas, a hunting knife, and a travel journal. Don’t you feel wonderful? Exotic? Daring? Living on the edge?

When you have much, less seems better. Downsize. Ignore Excess and other Plentiful Ideals from the Land of Plenty. (For this is easier than dealing with the deeper issues).

Or so it seems.

Wh are we like this? Why am I like this? I am culpable: I romanticize foreign countries, I romanticize Nature, I romanticize Tragedy and I really like using capital letters to sound exotic…natural…tragic.

But I’m really not. I just use the letters to feel ______(insert impressive adjective). I am not tragic though, nothing about my life IS overtly “tragic.” Heck, I had a glorious childhood full of playdough, American girl dolls, and scented markers…my mom would read me books to lull me to sleep, my sister and I would concoct ridiculous soap-operas with our very real, living toys in the playroom. High school was good, too…I went to Spain, I never scored a goal in Lacrosse but had a heck of a good time trying, I moshed at a Muse concert, I cultivated meaningful relationships with friends and teachers.

But what do you do with this? I was and still am never satisfied…I long for more, even if that more is “tragic.” (ah, I know nothing of life).

I am immensely blessed: I’m not poor, or starving, or homeless, or crippled by some debilitating disease, or physically abused by a crack-addict of a father.

Yet I prefer to have my head stuck in the clouds. I sit in my oversized pink, cushioned chair from Target and wish it all away. I think, “wouldn’t it be lovely to break a leg? Everyone would bring me flowers and I would feel pain and sadness and love all at the same time.” It sounds enticing.

BUT IT’S NOT. I wish for something bad just so I can….feel. This needs to stop. There is nothing beautiful about breaking a bone. The end product, what I romanticize…is just that. A romanticization.

Therefore, the end product elusive…I don’t really want it (toil, dissension, sickness, death). I just rename it (experience, not toil; strife, not dissension; malaise, not sickness; relief, not death). Then I capitalize each word to feel better about myself: Experience, Strife, Malaise, Relief.

Isn’t this stupid?

This isn’t tragic, or cultured, or beautiful. It’s shallow, myopic, and self-serving. In romanticizing, I distort reality and use the process of romanticization to feel good about myself. Sick.

Going to a Foreign country doesn’t solve anything. Escaping is not the solution. Even if I did cast aside all materialism, Americanism, technologyism, etc, and escape to “simplicity,” I’d still be miserable in that new environment.

This is what I’ve realized: it’s not the environment that matters. Wishing away the problems of America doesn’t do squat. They aren’t even the problems of “America”…they are MY problems. It’s all in me. Materialism, Americanism, Technologyism…these are just ways of avoiding my deeper issues of greed, selfishness, lethargy, insecurity….i could go on forever. I would carry these same problems with me to Spain, or China, or Djibouti.

So what am I going to do about this? Well, I need to stop romanticizing things. I’d like to bring my mind and heart closer to reality. “I have learned to be content in any and every situation…whether in plenty or in want….etc” Embrace this.

Oh, and I think I should stop capitalizing.

Like I said before, I’m only eighteen. I’m pretty naïve.