# Life, Longing and Losing: An Essay



## Glass Pencil (Jun 17, 2011)

Life, Longing and Losing




 	Life might most accurately be described as a series of small victories punctuated by grand failures. The greater majority of humanity seems to expend all their efforts in the pursuit of subsistence only to be remembered for their shortcomings. We judge our parents for their mistakes and missteps. We judge our lovers for their annoying habits and infidelities. We judge ourselves for the opportunities we squander. I myself often reflect on the defining catastrophes of my life in search of some substance; some value or meaning to the unflattering reflections. Several decisions always rise to the surface of these placid moments of introspection. My first taste of romantic infatuation ranks foremost in my list of offenses. My escape into a life of service and dour servitude typically follows. My clumsy attempts at grasping for meaning in the eyes of another tend to round out my triumvirate of all-conquering self-destructions. In my many private contemplations I have gleaned a singular personal truth: that it is our desires which defines us.  



 	I remember raven hair and pallid skin drawn across artful cheekbones framing a face my mind might only be creating by this point. Her name was Shannon and to my fifteen year old mind she was  an avenue to a world of deeper things. For a boy who struggled to make sense of the increasingly  complex nature of social interactions my peers had elevated to she was a beacon lit through foggy  shores. We had the simplest of introductions as we both sat against the bleachers of my high school gymnasium. We were united in our lack of purpose; two quietly rebellious persons only sure of our  contradictions. We talked about nothing as far as I can recall. I was a boy prone to verbosity when  under duress but for some reason I was content to simply listen to her stories of a wonderful  nothingness. We met occasionally during our lunch period over the course of several weeks. We talked  of bands and art and dreams. I dreamed of what must have hidden beneath those vintage thrift-store sweaters and black screen-print t-shirts.  



 	As with all relationships that seek a deeper connections our conversations turned from the superficial to the personal. She confided in me that her father was an angry, abusive man prone to rage and violence. I had experience with such things having been physically and emotionally abused by my step mother some time before. I think, perhaps, that this familiarity combined with my unspoken desires created a paradox in our budding relationship. The selfless desire to remove her from her abusive situation defied the very selfish desire to be the center of her life. I adopted an aspect of almost manic fervor to steal her away from her father. It wasn't long before I offered to let her live at my  place. This of course ended poorly. A distance was created between us and grew ever wider as my  desire to have her for my own ran rampant through my hormone addled mind. She stopped talking with  me so frequently and I began to suspect she was avoiding me. In response I stopped attending classes. I  went weeks at a time without setting foot on campus. I wallowed in a morass of self-doubt that only a  jilted adolescent can conjure. It was approximately a month later when I attended the class we had  together to find her conversing with another boy against the bleachers. He was thin and lithe where I was stocky, his hair was fair and long while my thick dark mop hung unceremoniously atop my head. I  didn't bother to address the issue. I simply left school for the last time. For all the wisdom my elders  had attempted to impart the notion that I couldn't have everything I wanted didn't take root until I saw  the boy I could never be taking what I would never have.  



 	After my departure from scholastics 	I took a job as a cook at a hotel in Reno. At sixteen I was woefully unprepared for the ordeals of self reliance, however I made due with a miraculous surplus of  ego. While employed in the pursuit of sandwich making and french frying I was under the tutelage of a  culinary instructor whom I had idly confided to an interest in military service. I thought nothing of the admission until another grand failure illuminated the hearts and minds of all America. As I struggled  with a four egg omelet in the kitchen the rest of my culinary school classmates had gathered in front of  an old television in awed silence. On that September afternoon thousands of people died in one of the  greatest tragedies of my young life. I thought to myself, after abandoning my gastronomic failure to the  rubbish bin, that perhaps I could offer something to my nation to ease its collective suffering.  



 	My enlistment in the United States Navy for a term of six years followed soon after the awful  evens of September eleventh. I knew myself to be an extremely, perhaps violently, individualistic  person who chafed against authority and yet I undertook this endeavor believing that I could somehow  change my personality. I told myself that it would be a challenge that would redefine who I was and  what my life meant. I imagined that through my servitude I would find some mythical mote of success and fulfillment. My delusions didn't make it through boot camp.  



 	My military career was a string of disciplinary actions, major setbacks and psychological hardships. I excelled at the technical aspects of my chosen profession and little else. My boots were  habitually unpolished, my hair always a little too long and my demeanor never quite deferential enough  to appease my superiors. My personal life consisted of almost ritualistic binge drinking sprinkled with  sparse moments of adventure and freedom. It was during these trying years I took up writing as a  hobby and as a means of therapy. I look back on this time and can't decide whether it would have been  better to simply give up early on rather than limp through the greater portion of my young adult life in  such a disgusting manner. The fact that I made it six years and received an honorable discharge might  be seen as a triumph to some, however the reality was that I only just made it out alive and the weight  of those wasted years continues to pull me down to this day. Through my military service I learned  another great personal truth: you can't fool yourself into wanting something. Desire must be genuine or  it will only lead to ruin.  



 	Near the end of my enlistment I met a young woman whom I developed a deep fondness for. We met in Tokyo, Japan during periods of great upheaval and transition in both our lives. We lived a fairy  tale for a month and, at least I, believed that tale could go on forever. She was my first long term  girlfriend at the age of twenty-one, before her there was a string of pointless dalliances and one night  stands that constituted my romantic life. We were both broken in the way that reclusive, overly introspective young people are. Wonderfully aware of our own shortcomings but determined to wear  them like badges of prestige and honor. 



 	Our lives together ended abruptly six months later when she cheated on me at a college party in Stockton California. The reason was likely a fear of being left to her own devices for a prolonged  period of time, as our relationship had entered a long distance period due to my remaining military  obligations in San Diego and her college career in Stockton. I had thought that we understood each  other to such a degree that distance would not undo us. I had believed that if I just tried hard enough, told her enough times that I loved her then everything would work out fine. I learned that everyone has  a breaking point. I learned that some people have precious little control over their desires. It was then  that I understood that desire must be tempered with will; that we should never allow our desires to  usurp our control.  



 	One might comment that using the low points in your life as milestones of self definition is a terribly negative method of philosophizing. I'm sure its a familiar considerations to veterans of twelve  step programs at least. I just find that failures provide a more accurate baseline when measuring my life against my potential. Life is, for me, the process of weighing my desires against the pain of losing  them.


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## Olly Buckle (Jun 17, 2011)

“Life might most accurately be described as a series of small victories punctuated by grand failures.”

Try to be definite in your opening statement, it might be it might not, it could be less accurately described as, is it accurate or inaccurate? See what I mean? Try something like “Life can be described as .. “ or “My life is ...”

“We judge our parents for their mistakes and missteps. We judge our lovers for their annoying habits and infidelities. We judge ourselves for the opportunities we squander.”
This, on the other hand, is very definite, but open to disagreement, I would phrase it “Parents are judged... Lovers are judged ... We judge ourselves”. If you provide two statements that people can agree with instantly they are far more likely to accept the third, you lose the nice rhetorical device of starting the three clauses with the same “We judge ...” but as it is there will always be a certain section who say “My parents were not like that” or “No I don’t I judge her for her fidelity, that’s why I am with her”.

“I myself often reflect”
“Myself” is redundant, “I” will do, there is only one of you.

“Several decisions always rise to the surface of these placid moments of introspection. My first taste of romantic infatuation ranks foremost in my list of offenses. My escape into a life of service and dour servitude typically follows. My clumsy attempts at grasping for meaning in the eyes of another tend to round out my triumvirate of all-conquering self-destructions. In my many private contemplations I have gleaned a singular personal truth: that it is our desires which defines us.”
You tend throughout to verbosity. I am taking this as an example, try this and see if it is easier to read or if the meaning changes significantly:-
Several decisions rise to the surface in moments of introspection; my first taste of romantic infatuation; my escape into a life of service; and my clumsy attempts at grasping for meaning in the eyes of another make a triumvirate of self-destruction. In my private contemplations I have gleaned a singular personal truth: our desires define us.

Hope you find this helpful with the writing side. On the life side I tend to see such things as experience to draw on when structuring the next stage, rather than failures. There is nothing you can do to change the past, but it is also the only guide we have to the present and future.


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## Glass Pencil (Jun 20, 2011)

Thank you for the critique. This was an assignment for an English class however I didn't complete it until after the deadline and so I fear it will not be graded. I appreciate your input!

I sort of churned it out in a matter of an hour or so and honestly this is basically a very rough draft. I'd go through it and tear out a lot of the needless verbosity and awkward construction were I to revisit it. 

As for the personal matter I really don't think like that, it just seemed to fit with the theme ha ha. I suppose as writers we tend to assume aspects in our writing that aren't entirely genuine or indicative of our actual personalities right?


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