Philosophical Conversations with my friends on Twitter (Vol. 1)

I was reminiscing about our very brief session of middle school drinking games on Thursday night, in which a very good friend of mine asked me why my ex and I broke up. And I sighed and I told her exactly what happened, and then I let her comment on how ridiculous it was, and then I delved a little deeper into what I think we did wrong as individuals trying to be a couple. And contrary to when I clung onto T for dear life immediately after we broke up, or when cried into the phone during all of M’s lunch break, or when it felt like K was the only glue holding me together, or every single thing I blogged for the next month…it didn’t hurt to talk about this. I wasn’t actively suppressing any emotions. There was no choking up. I didn’t want to cry; in fact, if someone had suggested that this might be too difficult for me to talk about, I would have laughed at them. And I don’t think it was just because I was a little drunk.

So, thinking out loud, I tweeted:

It’s weird when you’re totally over a situation. Last night, [Choosing Pancakes] asked me about something that had me torn to pieces over the summer, and

I could just lay out the facts like it was something that had happened to someone else. I’m not that person who was so hurt anymore.

 And she responded:

In one way, that’s comforting, but in another way, it worries me that everything becomes … less meaningful?

And I replied:

I don’t think I could function if everything that ever happened to me retained its original meaning throughout time and space.

Could there be “moving on”? Could I “get over it”? I feel like distancing oneself is a necessary component of development and growth.

She said:

but then that makes me feel stupid for feeling things so intensely now, like i’m exaggerating.

And that is so totally, completely, and thoroughly the opposite of how I ever want to make anyone feel that I had to try to remedy it.

I think that feeling things intensely in the moment is incredibly important. Those kinds of rushes and losing ourselves in things are

the moments we feel most alive and like what we’re experiencing matters. It’s like we’re artists, and those moments are when we’re

painting. We get lost in the colors and the strokes and in creating this glorious thing. But when we’re done and it’s hanging on a

wall somewhere, we have to be able to step back and say, I could have done this differently or next time I’ll do this instead. We can

still be proud of our work, but if we stay in that fever of creation forever, will we ever grow as artists? I’m dubious.

 I took a short break to confirm that my extended metaphor was working, then continued:

Then I’ll say that, to the best of my understanding, most brilliant art arises out of intensity. But art is expression

in the moment, and an opportunity for communication and reflection once the moment has passed. I don’t think it loses significance

from the intense-creative-expressive period to the thinking-reflection period; on the contrary, without a period in which we can view

it somewhat objectively and understand the process and plan what to do next, why would the intensity matter at all? It would be

giving and giving and giving OF ourselves without ever giving back TO ourselves.

She liked my metaphor. I do too, a lot, so I figured I’d share. Also, I would like to formally retract a statement I made when I was still anti-Twitter about 160 characters not being enough to drop knowledge. 

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About alaiyo0685

I'm a kind of quirky, pretty stubborn, way too opinionated, twenty-something, intellectual, introspective, queer, Black, female, in a polyamorous relationship, and this is where I try to figure out my life.

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