Dissonance

Traveling in France, there has been a voice in the back of my head nagging me to “make the most of it.” It tells me to go and see all the sites, to go and talk to strangers, to introspect and “reflect” on where I’m at in life. But the thing with this voice is that it’s not mine: it’s society’s. I think it’s best personified by the impulse to take lots of photos while traveling—the existence of millions of higher-resolution photos of the same place on the Internet indicates that we take the photos not so that we can remember, but so that we can show our friends back home

Why is this the case? I believe that it’s because we feel compelled to travel for the way it makes us look to others, rather than ad desire for self-cultivation. We find ourselves jumping from site to site, never allowing a moment of much-needed idleness to creep in. Even when we get back to where we’re staying, the thoughts of the next day’s plans override any sense of relaxation that we might otherwise feel.

During this trip, I have been wrestling with the burden of expectation. Am I going to fall in love? Have I gone to lots of nightclubs? Oh my goodness, why didn’t you go to the Louvre? Some of expectations have been those of my past self—I had an idea of what my travels would be like, and I want them to conform to that idea. When things don’t pan out the way I expect, a certain stagnant ennui creeps in, stifling my motivation to continue.

It is kind of absurd. The whole point of traveling is to confront the unknown: it’s the same vibes as being the first in your family to go to college. If what happens is what you expected, then from this point of view, it’s a wasted experience. You can’t plan for it. If you attempt to eliminate uncertainty, you eliminate the formative surprises too.

There is a common notion that achievement arises from constraint: by being “disciplined,” we can maintain our focus and keep out all “distractions.” While I’ve traveled, I’ve come to realize a different truth—constraint is the wrong framework. When we approach life saying “I shouldn’t do that,” to yourself, you implicitly communicate that deep down there is a part of you that is misaligned with your best interest, and that this part must be restrained. To me this reeks of self-coercion, which in turn points to poor motivators—perhaps social pressure to do something we don’t intrinsically want to do?

Over the past few days, I’ve gotten to spend more time alone, on my own terms. After having traveled for several weeks, I’m settling into a rhythm. I’m relearning what it means to willfully embrace idleness, and this has given me much more time to think and to be myself. There’s no end goal to it—I’ve decided to stop looking for peace, for love, or for deeper self-understanding. The point is to exist. To let desire, neurosis, passion, and stagnation pass through me when they need to. I don’t need to be so attached to the positive emotions, or so avoidant of the negative ones. Everything happens at its own tempo—trying to control things only disrupts the rhythm.

When inspiration strikes, I act; when ennui sets in, I rest; when desire comes, I thirst; and when there’s pain, I grieve. My energy is built by riding this flow, not by forcing a tempo that others, including my past selves, tell me is best. Thus, I move through the world in a way that’s natural, sustainable, and unique to me. With a good rhythm, harmony with others becomes possible. But for me to make music, I must be OK with dissonance. I am still developing my style.

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