To Thy Own Self
Last night, a friend and I drove out to the outskirts of Tucson to watch the 4th of July fireworks. As we were crossing
the street from a batch of condos into the desert, a dog came running up to us, then ran back to its owners. We learned
too quickly that the two girls who we believed were its owners were not, in fact, its owners. The dog was running loose
from somewhere, scared because of all the noise exploding around it.
It was a boxer. It had a collar on, with tags, so we knew it belonged to someone. We tried to summon it by calling out, as gently as we could, hoping to offer some source of comfort. It didn't work. It continued scrambling around wildly and, 15 seconds later, it ran headfirst into the front bumper of a car going roughly 40 miles an hour.
We did not expect what happened next. We heard the dog's head strike the front bumper; it was a horrible sound. But then, the car somehow passed over the dog completely, and it emerged from the back of the car, still running, and it disappeared off into the dark dusk settling over the desert.
The driver of the car pulled over to the side of the road. My friend and I didn't stop to think; we took off running in the direction the dog had vanished into the desert. Clearly the dog had been badly injured and, if we didn't find it, it was unlikely to survive the night. We couldn't be sure the owner even knew it had escaped yet.
We had spent a few minutes combing through the dense desert brush in the dark, without finding a hint of where the dog had gone, when the owner appeared on the road. We went back to tell her what had happened. At this point, I noticed that the two other girls who had witnessed the accident, and the driver of the car, had vanished.
The dog's name was Hugo, so we started searching, all the while calling his name. We spent an hour on the side of this mountain, wading through cacti and brush, to no avail. My friend and I had brought one of our drones out in order to film the fireworks; we attempted to rig up the drone with a flashlight so we could do a search-and-rescue, but the flashlight wasn't bright enough. We even tried to install infrared apps on our phones so that, maybe, we could find the dog's heat signature in the desert that would contrast with its surroundings. That didn't work either.
Today I leave Tucson. So, my last night here was spent on the side of a mountain in the desert looking for an injured (and possibly dying) dog while fireworks burst all around me. I came to Tucson four months ago, largely to escape where I was, but also to search for something. I had no sense of what I was looking for. I knew I was a software engineer who had grown tired of programming. I knew I felt lonely, despite being surrounded by people. People told me that I idealized too much, an assessment which seemed to contain a hint of truth, though I couldn't quite put my finger on how or why.
My experiences in Tucson have been immensely helpful. I've found my way back to loving writing code more than anything else. I've come to understand myself, and who I am, better than I ever have in the past. Self-understanding is invaluable because it allows you to enjoy your own company more, which greatly aids with the pervasive sense of loneliness. If last night was representative of these last four months (and I'd argue it was), then I'd say that I've completely disabused myself of idealizing the world or the people in it. I don't know who hits a dog with their car and takes off that quickly.
In looking over the entries I've written on here in the last few months, I notice that I seem to encourage people to work on themselves, to seek to become better than they are. I've never written these words without a deep understanding of just how hypocritical this is. I'm not a perfect person, so encouraging anyone to strive to improve themselves means little coming from me.
I am human, in a world made of humans. That's horrible and wonderful and terrifying and inspiring, all at once.
I'm leaving Tucson because I finally understand the hand that I've been dealt. If you don't look at the cards you're holding, if you don't perceive them accurately, then you're not going to play them correctly. This truism does not stop people from making mistakes, least of all because we so often misread the cards that the others around us are holding. So it goes.
Understanding the past gets you very little, just because it doesn't give you the tools you truly need to peer into the future. The future is always dark; that's not to say it's bleak, but only that it's uncertain. It's always uncertain, regardless of what's behind you.
Come what may.
It was a boxer. It had a collar on, with tags, so we knew it belonged to someone. We tried to summon it by calling out, as gently as we could, hoping to offer some source of comfort. It didn't work. It continued scrambling around wildly and, 15 seconds later, it ran headfirst into the front bumper of a car going roughly 40 miles an hour.
We did not expect what happened next. We heard the dog's head strike the front bumper; it was a horrible sound. But then, the car somehow passed over the dog completely, and it emerged from the back of the car, still running, and it disappeared off into the dark dusk settling over the desert.
The driver of the car pulled over to the side of the road. My friend and I didn't stop to think; we took off running in the direction the dog had vanished into the desert. Clearly the dog had been badly injured and, if we didn't find it, it was unlikely to survive the night. We couldn't be sure the owner even knew it had escaped yet.
We had spent a few minutes combing through the dense desert brush in the dark, without finding a hint of where the dog had gone, when the owner appeared on the road. We went back to tell her what had happened. At this point, I noticed that the two other girls who had witnessed the accident, and the driver of the car, had vanished.
The dog's name was Hugo, so we started searching, all the while calling his name. We spent an hour on the side of this mountain, wading through cacti and brush, to no avail. My friend and I had brought one of our drones out in order to film the fireworks; we attempted to rig up the drone with a flashlight so we could do a search-and-rescue, but the flashlight wasn't bright enough. We even tried to install infrared apps on our phones so that, maybe, we could find the dog's heat signature in the desert that would contrast with its surroundings. That didn't work either.
Today I leave Tucson. So, my last night here was spent on the side of a mountain in the desert looking for an injured (and possibly dying) dog while fireworks burst all around me. I came to Tucson four months ago, largely to escape where I was, but also to search for something. I had no sense of what I was looking for. I knew I was a software engineer who had grown tired of programming. I knew I felt lonely, despite being surrounded by people. People told me that I idealized too much, an assessment which seemed to contain a hint of truth, though I couldn't quite put my finger on how or why.
My experiences in Tucson have been immensely helpful. I've found my way back to loving writing code more than anything else. I've come to understand myself, and who I am, better than I ever have in the past. Self-understanding is invaluable because it allows you to enjoy your own company more, which greatly aids with the pervasive sense of loneliness. If last night was representative of these last four months (and I'd argue it was), then I'd say that I've completely disabused myself of idealizing the world or the people in it. I don't know who hits a dog with their car and takes off that quickly.
In looking over the entries I've written on here in the last few months, I notice that I seem to encourage people to work on themselves, to seek to become better than they are. I've never written these words without a deep understanding of just how hypocritical this is. I'm not a perfect person, so encouraging anyone to strive to improve themselves means little coming from me.
I am human, in a world made of humans. That's horrible and wonderful and terrifying and inspiring, all at once.
I'm leaving Tucson because I finally understand the hand that I've been dealt. If you don't look at the cards you're holding, if you don't perceive them accurately, then you're not going to play them correctly. This truism does not stop people from making mistakes, least of all because we so often misread the cards that the others around us are holding. So it goes.
Understanding the past gets you very little, just because it doesn't give you the tools you truly need to peer into the future. The future is always dark; that's not to say it's bleak, but only that it's uncertain. It's always uncertain, regardless of what's behind you.
Come what may.