desirs impossibles

In astronomy today we learned about white dwarves, where a star in the same range of mass as the sun dies and is compressed down to the size of two Earths. If you were able to stand on one without burning to a crisp, the force of its gravity would make short work of your skeleton and compress you into a puddle of protoplasm. Mr. Fraknoi shared this as a joke, I guess, but the image was harrowing to me. Buckling bones is kind of disgusting, but more so the idea of gravity (or anything) holding you down with such force that you weren’t free to move anymore gave me this sickly feeling all over. Never before have I so appreciated our Earthly ability to stand up straight and run and jump.

I feel sometimes like I am in danger of implosion. When I am in a crowd of people I retract limbs and squeeze sideways to avoid contact. When acted on by outside forces I would rather lessen myself in accordance with them than push back and abolish them. We are creatures of appetite—for breath, for food, for sleep, for love, for sex, for friendship, for vindication, for stories and understanding, for blankets and fire when it’s cold, and cool water when it’s hot—and when anyone’s desires, or perceived desires, or even just established modes of existence make themselves known, I am usually the first to remove my appetites from the situation. I don’t eat meat because of half-formed moral implications, I don’t initiate friendships on my own because I don’t want to bother people who may not be interested, I don’t share things with my parents because I don’t want to shatter their perception of me. My few attempts at just-for-fun romance have ended tangled and ugly. I feel a kind of responsibility toward most people. I want to be what people want me to be, but at the same time I don’t like to feel like I’m doing something just to appease the beast. Desire and responsibility get muddled to the point that I don’t really know what it is that I want, and end up stagnant.

Lately I look at vaporous things with envy. It seems so easy to be something with no permanent shape or desires. Ties are never formed and can never be broken. Even gravity’s influence is lessened, and clouds just billow and float, unattached and free.

But at the same time, gaseous matter can never bite into a juicy apple, or drift to sleep aglow in a lover’s arms, or enjoy any kind of worldly pleasure. Maybe my desires would be less infuriating if I gave into them more often, but I don’t know how to wield that kind of freedom and feel okay with it.