Longing for connection. . .

I sit on my porch, staring out at the city lights, pondering the idea that I live in the midst of thousands of other souls- yet I feel so utterly alone and lost.
I don't really care if anyone else ever reads this. . . .I usually assume that no one does. I just write on here to get the words out of my mind. Sometimes I wish someone would hear me (or read me, in this case), and resonate with my restless soul and respond.
Doesn't everyone in the world long for some kind of connection, to be heard and seen and understood? I don't even understand myself most of the time.
I'm not being the most articulate here, but I don't care.
No one ever wrote a rule book or prescribed any kind of possible ideas for life after college, or life in this ambiguous state of in between youth and adulthood. It seems to me that adulthood is already a pretty solitary experience, with poets and authors as my only companions at times. I read the great deceased poets, Neruda, Eliot, Whitman, hoping that they will give voice to that which is voiceless, yet restless, within me. Perhaps they might awaken my own writer's voice, as if my words, and their haphazard semblance thereof, might validate my meager existence.

I used to have some strange ideals about changing the world, or working for the good of society, but now that seems rather lost to me. It was so easy to discuss and dialogue about those ideas when I was in the setting of a classroom or college forum, where most people agreed or had considered similar concepts. But now, HOW DO I LIVE IT OUT? I have no fucking clue.

Is there anyone out there who reads this. . .and somewhat understands?

It's strange, in my lifetime, there have been so many new advances in communication technology: cell phones, internet, emails. But it only seems to make one's solitude more acute- to have those possibilities of connection, but they hold nothing.
Seeking connection with another human being seems futile at times. . . .

But these are just my thoughts, late at night, in the darkened city. . . .

Don't you ever just wish to be known?
Maybe I am the only one who ever wishes for such a thing.

I sat outside and smoked on my back porch tonight, alone, watching my dissipating clouds of smoke rise to heaven, the only kind of prayer I know- my nicotine-laced incense of singed tobacco drifts up to the infinite black sky. I live and interact with people every day, we smile and nod and acknowledge each other, but doesn't everyone wish to be known, rather than just acknowledged?
There are a few people that come into the Dunn Brothers where I work every day. Sometimes they sit there for hours at time, staring at some cornea-impairing computer screen, or fixing their gaze upon a thick novel or other comparable volume. I worked a twelve-hour shift today (don't ask me why, I suppose just because it was Easter, and I needed the hours), and some of the "regulars" came into the coffee shop during my morning shift, and were still there when I came back to visit during the evening shift. I wonder if they stay there for such long hours because they might not want to go home and face the fact that they are alone, and lonely to boot. (I know I am.) To be in a semblance of strangers, not meeting each other's gaze or engaging in conversation seems superficial and trite, but it is at least some piece of humanity that might connect us, rather than sitting in one's home, daring to remain alone. When I didn't have a job for the entire months of February and March, I would often go out to a cafe or a library, (usually whichever one was closest and had the cheapest coffee), and I would just sit and read, or work on my homework for writing class. The goal of completing a book or a writing piece, or even getting a cup of coffee, was not at all what I was after. I just wanted to join a small part of humanity, even if for just a few hours. Even just the momentary interaction with the bustling baristas was sometimes enough to remind me that I am not completely alone.

I often smoke while standing on sidewalks, or on my back porch, or as I walk through the city. If one would be watching me from a distance, it would appear as if I simply cast away my finished filter, unaware as to where and how it lands and rests as trash. I don't simply toss it away. I often study the other used filters on the sidewalks, wondering who it was who smoked those, what they were thinking as they inhaled that relaxing smoke, and how it strangely and slightly connects us, our conglomeration of nicotine-laced litter, which seems to be our own unique mark to show that we were here. I can see outside of the Dunn Brothers where I work, the filters of my own Camel Lights, or the Marlboros of my boss, Sanjeev, or the cheap Parliaments that all the male baristas at Dunn Bros prefer (which is a mystery to me, Parliaments are not good cigarettes at all). Along with our staff's smoke break pile-up along the Bryant Avenue sidewalk, other pedestrians and motorists have added to the mosaic of snuffed-out remnants. The environmentalist in me used to recoil at the sight of cigarette filters covering the ground, but now it shows me and reminds me that we are not alone. We live among other smokers, yes; but also among other human beings- humans who crave touch, love, connection. . . .and are trying to exist in this world just as I am (and you are, whoever may read this). The dirty remainders from our nicotine fixes establish our humanity, our connectedness, our common need for knowing and being known. . . . .

"Still Fighting It" by Ben Folds

As I'm sitting in the house on this beautiful day, moping around in my twenty-something angst, I keep playing this song over and over, because truly, it DOES suck to grow up. . . .

Good morning, son.
I am a bird
Wearing a brown polyester shirt
You want a coke?
Maybe some fries?
The roast beef combo's only $9.95
It's okay, you don't have to pay
I've got all the change

Everybody knows
It hurts to grow up
And everybody does
It's so weird to be back here
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it, we're still fighting it
And you're so much like me
I'm sorry

Good morning, son
In twenty years from now
Maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers
And I can tell you 'bout today
And how I picked you up and everything changed
It was pain
Sunny days and rain
I knew you'd feel the same things

Everybody knows
It sucks to grow up
And everybody does
It's so weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it, we're still fighting it
You'll try and try and one day you'll fly
Away from me

Good morning, son
I am a bird
It was pain
Sunny days and rain
I knew you'd feel the same things

Everybody knows
It hurts to grow up
And everybody does
It's so weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it, we're still fighting it
Oh, we're still fighting it, we're still fighting it
And you're so much like me
I'm sorry