Just sat and had one of those conversations that seem to inject me with passion like a lightening bolt. It’s invigorating to sit with a group of complete strangers, bound by a harrowing book about another world. But it isn’t another world; it’s a country a few hundred (or thousand…I’m no math major) miles away filled with 21-year-old girls with the same inane and superficial questions that run through my mind all day. At least I would like to think. I guess one book on North Korean defectors doesn’t exactly make me an expert on the psyche of communist females, but my inner cosmopolitan would like to think that most 21 year olds with xx chromosomes innately contract a particular restlessness at this age. Do we all stress about why we are perpetually single? Do we all panic over what the fuck were going to do with our teeny tiny little lives to magnify them just a bit? Do we all want to go everywhere and nowhere at exactly the same time, 23 hours a day? Culture makes these questions mean such different things, but sometimes you can make eye contact with a girl your age and in a quick second understand she feels you. Its comforting.
I also find comfort in talking to people who have the same (at times annoyingly deluded) save the world attitude as me. It’s nice to talk about the world, about people, with a set of like-minded individuals who haven’t given up on the hope that were going to be the ones who change something. Anything really. Every second that I get older, I become more aware of the potential cynic bubbling up inside of me, and I become highly more aware of the cynic seeping into the people around me in a way that can’t be wrung out. I know my optimism is child-like, contained, and (somewhat) undisturbed by the harsh realties of rejection, loss, sorrow, and general hardships. But when my sanguinity is reignited, on nights like tonight, its soothing like a lullaby and it puts my doubts and demons to sleep.
Also, I need to learn French. ALSO read NOTHING TO ENVY by Barbara Demick. Tomorrow.