How did I get here?

WARNING: The following post is whiny and self-indulgent. A proper post about Berlin is on its way, but I'm posting this because I think homesickness is relevant to a travel blog and because... well, because I took the time to write it, dammit.

I hate to admit it, but I think I might be homesick. Or at least that's part of it.

Today I learned that Mr. Drahos passed away and I became unreasonably upset. I didn't know the man well; I've probably spoken five words to him in my whole life. In fact, if you had asked me yesterday whether or not he was still alive I would have casually admitted ignorance and I wouldn't have thought twice about it after that. But knowing he's dead is different. For me, I think he was one of those two-dimensional characters that stay put in the background, but nevertheless influence your path through life in small, incalculable ways. The namesake of the street I grew up on, the old man I was unnecessarily frightened of when I was little, a man I later respected for his refusal to let old age limit him, who embodied for me the adage "It's not how old you are, it's how you are old"...

Maybe grief is always selfish, but mine feels especially selfish. Selfish and also superficial, but nonetheless real and painful. I'm sad not because I loved the man, but because his death is one more broken tie to my childhood, where things were, if not necessarily any better, at least simpler. His passing is another sign that life is stuck in fast-forward, a morbid reminder that everything ends. There's something awful and egocentric about simplifying another man's life that way, but it's hard to shake myself out of this gloom.

Life is, as I often joke, mysterious. I sometimes wake up here in Spain expecting to find myself in my bedroom at home on Drahos Drive. I quickly adjust, but somewhere in my subconscious, the question repeats: How did I get here? How did the little kid I was in elementary school end up... here? The series of circumstances and events that have pulled me through life thus far seem completely and utterly random. A comprehensive list of my life experiences would be incomprehensible. Here's a taste: In kindergarten, my teacher disappeared halfway through the year; later, I heard talk of emotional problems. In the third grade, I received my black belt in Tae Kwon Do and promptly quit. In the sixth grade, I tied my shoes together in detention and my English teacher had to console me when my inability to untie them triggered a meltdown. In the ninth grade, I took up pole vaulting and consistently failed to clear seven feet at meets.

And now here I am, in Spain.

Everyone has limited control over their life, but now and then I get the feeling that I've never really taken advantage of what little control I do have. I've been floating along because I'm too lazy or scared to swim. I want to live deliberately, but I can never seem to find the time or energy.

In the end, it's easier to blame feelings of helplessness on the things you can't control, like the death of an old man or the frenzied pace time seems to prefer in its ceaseless march forward. I want to swim, but swimming is difficult. It's easier to sit around and feel sorry for yourself and wonder how the heck you got here.