But I may know the thing--the instrospective self-reflective exploring-identity personal-indulgence thing, father's health and fate of world aside--that sometimes, but consistently, worries me:
A lot of the time it seems I don't have a soul. It's obvious I don't have souullll, as much as I wish I could bring down a house with a sweaty rendition of "I've Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now)." But A Soul, on the other hand ... all I'm left with is an ellipsis.
In Canada the seventh grade at my school (oops "GRADE SEVEN" I meant) had three homeroom teachers. 7B's teacher was actually a woman who had (apparently) gone crazy a couple years earlier, when a student accidentally called her by her ex-husband's last name -- like (apparently), dancing on the tables crazy, yelling, and even kissing a student. She went away for a while, then came back to teach the year I moved to the school; I had her for keyboarding class.
But anyway. My friend was in 7B, and right from the year's outset, her teacher had strung letters "7-B--I-S--P-A-S-S-I-O-N" all around the room, going the extra mile to insert the word, and the idea of, "passion!" into every homeroom activity. I, however, was in 7A, with Mademoiselle E., who was a nice(-enough) spinster who liked to speak French even in homeroom, which I (as a staunch un-knower of French) found a bit annoying, mainly when she would tell me to do stuff and I wouldn't have a clue of what she was saying.
So my middle-school teen years, at least ages 11-13.5, were pretty rife with: the usual new-school anxieties, private-school uniforms, being surrounded by (many catty and/or sporty) girls, my only prospects of secret crushes being limited to any males on my interscholastic school bus rides, French commands, no air conditioning, U-shaped corridors, and debate teachers with B.O. That school certainly had a lot of stories going for it, as I can now look back on so many of the interesting/fun/weird details I can remember, but I didn't have much time for passion. Passion was wack. Passion was wack-ass wack. I was still wack-ass-wack shy, through both years, and listened to a lot of music by myself. Maybe that was a good thing (especially when it was "Crossroads" by bone thugz n harmony on COOL-FM).
But, what I'm saying, is. I don't feel like I've grown up very much, or at least grown too much away from those years. I've met more people, almost always for the better, and have maybe become a little less introverted. But not much else.
And it could be summer doldrums talking, but I don't feel like I am passionate about anything, at all. There is stuff I like to do, and stuff I don't like to do, but the grey haze pretty much covers everything. I don't know what doctrines I accept or reject but feel too listless to do anything. "I am listless, and desponding." I am pretty sick of not knowing how I feel and of not knowing how TO feel and of biting my lip regarding secret Guys, who I am pretty sure like me allright but not in passion.
I think I just want something, or someone (ohhhhh another dimension), about which/whom I know I can be 100% passionate. Even if that word, in any of its forms, went on my Lame list after Madamoiselle B. put it everywhere in her classroom (which subbed as my algebra and Canadian history classrooms).
I just wanted to finally spit this out. All that's on my tongue right now is a desire to revisit Canada, I think.