so strange, so other

Isn't it funny how we often realize the most about ourselves in those rare yet delightful moments when there is someone who is trying to figure us out? It's wonderful--two people, who would have otherwise been completely "other"ed from each other, trying to find those similarities that could keep them engaged in conversation. When I think about this, I am reminded of Jean-Marc's perception of the friend as a mirror, infinitely reflecting back to the memories of the past, and you, preserved as the way people have once viewed you. And if the person really cares, he or she will allow the mirror to distort ever so slightly, so harmlessly, with no deliberate intention to mislead, that what you see of yourself with them is exactly the person you wish to be. I think it's what keeps us talking, or at least revisiting old friends from the past.

Recently, it's been difficult for me to stay inside my head long enough to think and write. If contemplation demands some form of loneliness, then my very desire to reach out and find those everyday pleasures, particularly the company of others, is actually a bit self-destructive. I could never be a real writer; I don't value the art enough to give up those things that slap a goofy smile on my face. Not to say that there aren't happy writers, but I just personally can't do it and, quite frankly, don't care. There have always been things I've put ahead of my work, and that isn't going to change now, nor do I want it to.

Still, for some inexplicable reason, I've had this strange feeling of anxiety whenever I think of the upcoming semester, and not the normal jitters or excitement from previous years. It's as if I can feel a big change coming, or something drastic, but I can't tell what. Maybe it's just a passing feeling, but it's been recurrent enough to warrant some form of documentation. Or maybe I'm just biting off more than I can chew. It's just strange, all of it.

On a completely unrelated note, Lady Russell from Persuasion has been haunting my thoughts. Her actions at the end of the novel beg the question: is it better to be right, or to share happiness? This question, in turn, makes me think of the short story "The Lady or the Tiger?" Just read it, and try to answer. Stockton gives no indication what really happens, but I have my own hypothesis that I would be glad to share. If the answer indicates some aspect of one's personality, then know that I would, without question, choose the lady every time.