For some reason I have no urge to fall into the depression of past days. Around Thursday or so, something in my mind simply switched on (or off?) and a seven-month cycle of evening breakdowns began drawing to a halt.

Even though there are matters pressing on my mind, academics, my future, I am less inclined toward the typical self-pity and more toward turning music up to ridiculous volumes and doing something. Now is the time to feel numb about my direction in life and confused about my summer plans, but it is also the time that I will take action. I suddenly recognize things I want to learn and do. I’ve sworn to get even more involved and hopefully join dance, get involved in more groups… that I simply don’t have time to fall into this rut again. I want to master the guitar and learn how to glowstring. And I’m unhappier when totally idle. Which is a great thing to be unhappy with, considering my to-do list.

Almost as if overcompensating for the tendency I’m beginning to let go of– that lingering in the past, wistfully remembering superficial attention– I realized that I have a slight revulsion toward those worlds I was once interested in. Anime fan? Not anymore. My skin crawls a bit. Losing interest in most Internet-based activities has made me turn to real life. Which is a great turn of events, considering my to-do list.

For some reason? Realizing all this? I feel really mentally free.

And content.

(Except for when I turn to my to-do list.)

I’m also realizing, belatedly, that the friend I acquired is neither one I need nor one I want after understanding some behavior, and he’s starting to make like a leech and suck. Excessively harsh? Probably. But the more I understand him, the more I find myself fed up with his inability to overcome certain things. It all rings reminiscent of the very characteristics that drove me away from others in the past. For a platonic interest, he’s latched onto me with highly unnerving strength. E-mails, phone calls, unexpected visits when before he would never go out of his way to emerge from his room for anyone. It’s almost stalkerish.

There is a distinct symbolism in the fact that, when we went photo-spreeing, I took panoramic scenic shots of countless blossoms comprising a whole while he took shots of single flowers against a blurry background.

—

“So you don’t want to hear it?”
“…There’s so many wrong ways you could take ‘it only lasted for ten seconds.’”
“…”
“…”
“Bye, love!”
“Bye, dear! Take care! Have a safe trip! Don’t perv!”

-my roommate and I. First sentence is hers, second is mine, and alternating.

—

Rise above, part 1: the tarot question

After a cracked-up reading for my roommate on Thursday, my deck was thoroughly shuffled. As I waited, bored, for work to step up during my shift at the university newspaper, I started putting the deck back in order, but stopped and picked up one pile of cards I’d made. Considering, I decided to begin my study of the major arcana- the 22 trump cards of a tarot deck. There’s an interesting symbolism attached to each card, and heaps of occult references (numerology, astrology, pagan elements), of course, but more enchantingly, there’s a story narrated.

As I shuffled the thin stack of 22 cards, occasionally drawing and spreading them, the Hanging Man kept emerging. Traditionally titled the Hanged Man, one interpretation of the card particular to this deck is that “hanged” implies an outside force whereas “hanging” means he’s hanging of his own accord. Yet no matter the deck, the Hanged Man is at peace, dangling upside-down by his ankle.

I get the point, I thought, and drew the card out of the deck. Setting it aside, I replaced the other 21 cards in their bag with the rest, and tucked the Hanging Man away in my bookbag.

Much like a dear friend oft-mentioned majoring in religion, I am fascinated completely and awed. But I do not believe wholly.

After all, I believe in tarot as an introspective aid. I believe that, like any other purported form of divination, each card and each interpreted reading can be twisted to fit one aspect or another of anyone’s life, and that tarot doesn’t actually tell the future. What it does do is perhaps encourage a viewpoint that hadn’t been considered before; the twist to fit one’s life to a card also opens up one’s mind. For those who seek readings, they seek an outside authority to justify the introspection that they themselves are capable of but shy away from, fearful of what they might have to admit to themselves. And it’s such an elegant mechanism to do it through.

Conversely, people wish to make excuses to themselves that the cards say this, it was inevitable. or the cards say that, my suspicions are correct. These are often those who truly, sincerely believe in the divinatory powers of tarot– because in doing so, they either give up control, as querents seeking readings and reassurance, or take control, as readers believing they have foresight beyond that of a common human.

I still think that the most practical purpose of tarot is the ability to study it and discover more things about one’s own mind in the process. The Hanging Man accompanied me this the weekend, something to consider; if it so happened to always show up when I was shuffling that night and ultimately fall out of my deck, it was probably more statistical coincidence than supernatural intervention, but it’s fortuitous nonetheless. A symbol of the peace and understanding gained through having successfully faced trials, one willing to dangle upside-down awkwardly and perhaps be inconsistent with society in order to learn more about or be true to oneself. It symbolizes knowing a balance in life, knowing what to sacrifice and what to hold fast to and above all, knowing yourself. In short, it was the perfect card to accompany my return to the world of the living, crawling out from under my nightly depressions.

And who can deny the sentiments behind that?

[to be continued]