subliminating again

we all have to go through an existential crisis at some point. some prefer the blinding control of certainty, so i guess it's more accurate to say most of us.. i went through mine at 14. it sure fucked me up; short black hair, endless writings on lethargy, a pink gun fetish, a lot of yelling, dark contempt for most, a shit load of confidence, and a terribly sarcastic take on the words exiting the mouths of others. i enjoyed it, i got along with most everyone - as much as i cared to - and went about my social life outside of school. it was a nice way to survive high school and i made a lot of people laugh (and cry). it definitely provided me a lot of advances, including a feeling of vast height over the rest of the student population - literally and figuratively. but where has it left me? where do you go when you've already passed the "what does it all mean" stage? at this point, i've finished college too. which was an incredibly different experience. i was surrounded by brilliant and challenging people constantly - so long as i made a good choice based on a ratemyprofessor.com rating. the two worlds contributed to a dense amount of bias about the world, based on the perspective i stood in.

high school = lots of boring, lazy kids
college = kids drop/flunk out, adults emerge

the problem being;
real world = a clusterfuck of neither & both

reading "catcher in the rye" in high school was a funny experience. everyone pissed and moaned because it 'had no ending'. my teacher, mr. alexander, saw my face turn white in reaction to such comments as i couldn't help but to speak out of turn..

'that's the point! don't you get it? there is no point to this story, it's just a smart guy talking out his observations of the world. he has come to the conclusion that life isn't about finishing a story, it is the story. where life begins and ends is up to us. beyond that holden has no idea what he's talking about, he isn't there to give us answers, but help us reach our own."

no one spoke, the conversation ended, and we moved onto "the bet" by anton chekov. another story i'll never forgot nobody understood. poetic, prophetic, or pathetic?

i still feel in many ways the same about people, although more optimistic about the few upright. none the less, i still am bothered deeply by those who read one book over many or decide they know the ultimate answers, when none exist. i find many daily activities silly. the fact that i use the word 'silly' so often speaks loudly about my feelings. i don't really know where i'm going with this. maybe picking up another Salinger book last night is the reason for my unease this morning, but for some reason i felt the need to vent. about what, i'm not sure. how symbolic?