The End of a Chapter

I would divide my life into three distinct chapters, the third one starting just today. The first lasted until I was 23 and made the decision to move to Iceland. During that period of my life, I was destined to become a professor. I spent my days with all the same friends doing all the same things, enthusiastically pursuing anything and everything interesting in the world of computers. From high school to undergrad to grad school: I thought I knew what I wanted. But when I made it to the very end, I had a harsh realization in my PhD advisor’s voice: This will be your future. Only then did I realize this was, in fact, not what I wanted. In my panic, I proposed idea after idea of what I could do. They were shut down because they were artistic ideas, not scientific.

I quit my PhD and moved back to Michigan. That was where the second chapter began at the age of 23. What am I supposed to do now? was a question I asked myself often. There were many projects I tried and gave up on. Ultimately, I got back into reading, discovered the Bukowski poem that made me want to write poetry myself, and thought… and thought… and thought… Too much thought caused too many problems in my mind. All my days were spent thinking of what to do and what I had done.

It’s a long story of why I chose Iceland, but I had nothing to lose. I wanted to be somewhere cold because I don’t like the heat, somewhere isolated, and somewhere comfortable (geopolitically/economically). I moved as far north and away as one can. I wanted to be alone; I thought it would be peaceful. It didn’t go well. My world came crashing down around me. So I moved around Iceland for a few months, never finding a home. I returned to Michigan, utterly defeated, at the age of 24. Many more months were spent staring out the window, questioning who and what I am and my place in this world. I wrote My Humanity at this time:

My humanity is a man standing in the window. He stands high above in the home he has made. He looks down on the ground, the earth for which he longs. His heart pleads for him to return whence he belongs. But the earth no longer is his home.

So he watches from the window, the trees in the wind. He watches from afar, the mountains and their snow. He listens from within to the rain on his home. He dreams of a life that no man can ever know.

Man and human, separated by a window. Where did my humanity go? I see it, there, outside in my reflection. He watches me, there, in silent contemplation. He weeps for me and who I never can be. He speaks to me in the blowing of the wind. But his words are lost to my void within.

My flesh has no purpose with no sun to burn. The face that I wear shall never be borne. What use is there to anything I do if my humanity is a dream that will never come true?

All he can do is stand in the window. All he can do is reflect on his life. His calm in the storm is the swaying in the wind. His blood is the rain from which he is sheltered. His heart is the earth which he never shall know. His soul is the sun from which he must hide. His humanity is a man who no longer is human.

I had also been writing all the while, publishing my first book. It didn’t feel like an accomplishment — more like a shame. But I wanted to do something with my life. That wish resulted in me going to Istanbul where I addressed the Russian government. It made my frustrations with the world feel valid, that it was possible for me to have a voice, even if a quiet one. Following that, I returned to Iceland where the rest is history: I fought and fought and fought to live a life. I learned my lesson the first time, and I went to the city and put myself out into the world. I got my first non-academic job and ended up building an amazing community and group of friends by the age of 25, now 26. That led all the way up to this very day.

My girlfriend and I decided to split up. I call this the end of a chapter because everything else is also ending. I’ve detailed perhaps a little too much about my frustrations at work; that place is no longer a source of life for me. I built my entire world from that place. Everything I have in this country came from that workplace. Now, I’m putting it in the past. I had started my artist collective. That ended on Tuesday, for the most part. Our event host told us he needs a break for the summer: that was our final event. My business partner announced that she’s leaving shortly before. My favorite location in the city shut down. Other friends are leaving the country. My beloved writing group has met its end. The mental overflow from my trip to the countryside is part of this mix.

I spent a lot of time wondering whether I would follow my girlfriend to France. In the end, my life is here, and I don’t want to live in France. So now I sit in my apartment and find myself in a similar situation to before: Who am I, what am I doing, and what do I want to do? I don’t know. I really don’t. I met with a friend and discussed the state of the world for a while: how broken everything is. The first thought I have is whether I’m wrong not to follow her. What does Iceland even have to offer me? This is a cold, harsh, bitter country. Life here is immensely difficult for foreigners. We’re relegated to the most terrible of working conditions and most brutal of jobs. Our friends come and go, rarely anyone staying long. It’s a small, isolated place, causing moments of claustrophobia.

I ask myself why I’m still here, and I don’t have an answer. Why not go to France? I don’t have an answer to that either beyond a weightless, “I don’t want to.” My life is here. But is it? What life? I’m organizing a festival for July which will hopefully repeat in the winter. I’m “in” the poetry scene. I teach the language. I’m still in many groups and attend many events. But what constitutes a life? Obviously, all those things I just mentioned, but there’s something more grand that I can’t identify. Perhaps a sense of meaning, purpose, or belonging. I’ve lost all those with all the lost people and groups and places.

The truth is, I’m well aware that going somewhere else — with anyone else — will not change anything. It all starts with me as an individual. It’s simply difficult to reason about life itself. I’m still meeting with countless people. My days are filled from start to finish. I still have very good, close friends. But I want a meaningful job and a sense of larger-scale community.

I do my best to latch onto the raw humanity in times like this: the humanity of the struggle to exist and survive. I’ve been turning everything into story ideas, trying to capture the meaning all these events have to me. I’m ready to write my next book, but I don’t have the motivation to write. The purpose of all my creative work is to express the things I feel, tangibly. That sometimes feels like too grand of a task as to be impossible, making me not even want to try. How do I express the feeling of deleting the hearts next to her name in such a way that others “get it”? Each moment so human, so meaningful, but so individual. We’re halfway through the year already. Maybe it’s time I at least try.