clear rants

We like to unnecessarily complicate things. By we, I am referring to the human race as a whole; but more specifically, to that certain percentage who, like me, likes to overanalyze. When you sit one of us down alone, our minds take 3 shots of espresso, a couple of redbulls, and a chocolate bar for good measure; then our thoughts run wild. More often than not, these rampant musings are completely ungrounded and succeed only in uncalled-for anxiety and white hairs.

Now, if we were created with only this wild mind, we would be fucked. I mean, we would literally worry ourselves into the ground. Our minds are, for lack of a better word, thought junkies. Whether through a nervous breakdown or through depression, our minds would just keep on going until we couldn’t physically support their dangerous lifestyles anymore. However, as with all extremes, there must exist a balance between them.

That’s where the heart comes in.

If the mind can be likened to a 40-something worry-wart, then the heart would be its innocent 4 year old counterpart. The best lessons in life can be learned from children. They teach simplicity and innocence. They are pure, straightforward and they see things in a way which we have already forgotten. In the world of a child, all of life’s ailments can be cured by some crackers and a juice box; for truly earth-shattering moments, an ice cream cone is the only answer. And in those times when your back is against the wall and you have nowhere else to turn, every child knows that all you need is a hug. We sometimes forget that.

The heart, like a child, is deceptively simple; and illogically, can sometimes be the voice of reason. This is counter-intuitive; we have been taught throughout our lives to be careful–not to listen too closely to our hearts. We must be practical, we shouldn’t run away with our emotions, we must be “smart.” There is definitely truth in these exhortations. Like a child, the heart doesn’t really think things through and does whatever it wants. But on a plane where the mind is often the reckless one, running loose and unbounded, the heart must be its rock–it’s stabilizing factor.

There are times when I get so caught up in my mind that I completely forget about my heart. Through all the (metaphorical) screaming and yelling in my mind, it is sometimes difficult to hear its whispered “hellos.” But when I do hear its quiet call and listen to what it has to say (which is often simple and concise), everything becomes crystal clear, a smile breaks out on my face, and I feel foolish. Our heart was put there for a reason. We should listen to it some time.

I didn’t know what I wanted for dinner tonight. I wandered up and down Lexington until I spotted a noodle shop. It wasn’t fast food and it wasn’t pizza, so why not? As I worked my way down the menu, I saw “Singaporean Rice Noodles,” with a little red pepper next to it. In fact, it was the only fried noodle dish with a red pepper. I was in a spicy mood.

At least I thought I was. Back at the office, I’m eating these super spicy noodles and I start sweating bullets. No sweat (HAHA), I think; I have a bunch of napkins with which to dab my forehead. But then, who decides to walk into my room but my boss, wanting to chat it up. Great. So she’s sitting across from me talking about God knows what, and all I can do is sit in front of her, nodding and sweating like a monkey. It got so bad that I had to wipe my face with a napkin while she was making idle conversation. How embarrassing.

But at least the noodles were good.

Random fact about me: I don’t like listening to James Blunt’s You’re Beautiful on the radio because they replace “f*cking high” with “flying high.” In my opinion, that (correct) lyric makes the song. Way to let me down again radio. Sigh.

As I read my book, leaning against one of the 42nd Street platform’s columns, a familiar scent wafted past my nostrils. A feeling–one I can’t quite describe–suddenly welled up in me. A sense of… what was it? Nostalgia? Whatever it was, there was a sense of the past within me.

It was almost a sweet smell; with a hint of freshness. What was it? And then it hit me: a smell so foreign to my senses in recent time that I had almost but forgotten it–the smell of hard liquor. The guy leaning against the other side of the column reaked of it. Everytime he breathed, the smell of alcohol wafted towards me. And what did this smell evoke images of? College.

That bothers me. The smell of vodka reminds me of college. Now, we all know I barely dabbled in the poison, but I was certainly around a lot of the stuff. The simple fact that I associate alcohol with college shows just how much. As I mused upon this feeling, I felt my brow furrow and my nose crinkle, and I continued to read on about alcoholics and the tangled web they weave themselves.

The guitar and cymbals crescendoed as I walked down the lonely, dank hallway. I knew what was coming. As I emerged into the night, the cold air hit my face and the drums hit. I slid my finger across the volume dial and closed my eyes as I walked to my car.

It was almost surreal.

Lights will guide you home.

Here’s a hypothetical question for all y’all:

Don’t you hate it when you let loose a really smelly one but find yourself too lazy to get up and move away–leaving you to gag and choke on your own stench?

Remember: hypothetical.

Happy New Year’s everybody!