I need to write more. I get this locked up feeling when I don't pen to paper every once in a while, like slowly suffocating. A friend of mine will be in Paris (she's actually from there) in three weeks and I regretably, once again, sink into desperate melancholy trying to right my sinking ship. On the one hand is progress and the security trifecta: family, house, career. On the other is my footloose wandering, or, in so few words, freedom. I do not feel the two are mutually exclusive, though combining them would take a rather herculean effort.
I imagine the thing that gets at everyone is the notion that if you chase one, you'll lose the other. Forever.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/03/fashion/03Modern.html?_r=2&ref=global-home
I guess it is simply a natural progression one must follow, if one chooses sanity. But I'm still haunted. The authority on this, at least from what I've gleaned, is Mr. Hemingway himself. I believe he tried for both. Yet what comes through his writing the most, for me, is the severe sadness he has in longing for the past (most prevalent in A Moveable Feast). I am reminded of my favorite quote from a not-so-favorite film, and I'll leave it at that...
I was young too, I felt just like you... If you're not a rebel by the age of twenty, you've got no heart. But if you haven't turned establishment by thirty, you've got no brains. Because there are no storybook romances, no fairy-tale endings. Because life... is not a movie. Everyone lies. Good guys lose. And love... does not conquer all.
