Franzen writes …”the one thing nobody can take away from you is the freedom to fuck up your life whatever way you want to.”
Mayer sings “who says I can’t be free from all the things I used to be – rewrite my history – who says I can’t be free?”
And as I sit here, quiet and comfortable in my city apartment, opportunity brightly (and insistently) knocking down my door, I find myself a smidge lonely.
It’s been a very long year. And in nine months, I will turn 30. And if there’s one thing these near thirty years has taught me, it’s worrisome independence and careful compromise. I have very little tethering me, save for the ticking clock and its seemingly increasing tempo. Days go by faster, no matter whether I think of you or anything else. Nights occur in the blink of an eye regardless of whether I finish the tasks at my fingertips. Plainly: I’ve slowed down.
Perhaps for the better. Certainly the angst that roiled inside of me has mellowed, aging into an increasingly complex wine, nipping each olfactory nerve, smoked fruits eliciting an inaudible (yet enjoyable) sigh. Give it a few more years, the experts say. Or at least another day, then another, then another. Seems its better for me to take things one day at a time.
It’s freedom – and revolution – binding my mind. Franzen’s treatise threw a book at the complexities, though mired in the inanities of present-tense American life, told primarily from those of “adults.” Mayer’s opus echoes the inanities of present-tense American life, told primarily from those “transitioning.” The difference? How you wake up everyday – and when and why – and what happens next.