Surreality

I have a problem.

This realization dawned on me first when I was lying on the beach in Cuba a month ago, but I felt it again this weekend past after a night out with some of my coworkers past and present. Sitting with a group of happily married and newly-engaged couples who all seem so well-to-do in life left me wondering about what I have to show for my (soon-to-be) 25 years.

I thought the same thoughts as I stared out into the sea, and a difficult problem to solve had arose—one that I fear has become an increasingly-recurring hinderance exaserbated by ye old quarter-life crisis.

For whatever reason, nothing that I do or accomplish ever feels real.

As I lay on the beach in Cuba, slightly disappointed with my choice of trip, I found myself working through my situation mentally. Though I had stories and souveniers aplenty to take back with me, something was missing; something about the trip had left me short-changed. Something had left me wanting more. Something had led me to think that I hadn’t truly seen or experienced what so many had previously seen or experienced and spoke so highly about in retrospect.

And that’s when I made a promise to myself. “Someday, I’ll go to a real tropical paradise,” I thought when I sat in silence on that Cuban beach, staring out into the sea with drink in hand and tan in tow.

That dream for a future visit to some fantastical spot that I could never reach got me thinking. I began to wonder, as existentially as I could while trying to avoid the pretentiousness that is marquee to the body of literature on the subject, about what makes these experiences real. I did this solely as a deseperate attempt to understand why I simply cannot bring myself to regard anything I’ve ever done or accomplished as anything meaningful or memorable.

As a result of this pondering, though, the list of “somedays” began to grow with each recalled memory of a supposed accomplishment.

“Someday, I’ll be a real writer,” I’d thought to myself as I scribbled notes in my book and recalled jobs I’ve had and have.

“Someday, I’ll be a successful man,” I’d thought to myself as I conjured up plans to take care of my bills and the other independant financial responsabilities that lay in wait for my eventual return home.

“Someday, I’ll have real stories to tell,” I’d thought to myself as I remembered the intimate eve with The Who and various other never-again nights of my life.

Somehow, all of my personal accomplishments and gains stand as mere incompetent fumbles towards some greater, unreachable, perhaps non-existent benchmarks of achievement—benchmarks which I can never, or at least never allow myself to, reach. Each success is rendered unsavory by the fact that the new threashold for joy (or even just recognition) is pushed a hundred paces further.

Sadly, I never did find a solution to my problem. All I was left with was a question. How can one ever hope to be at peace one’s life if that life seems forever misspent?

Thankfully, the answer really doesn’t matter. I’ve neither the time nor the will to unravel the mysteries of my psychology. I’ve got achievements to unlock in my MMO, after all.