How to what? How to go home? That's true enough, and not just in the literal sense, the sense that tells him that going home to his father is potentially dangerous, not because of anything his father will do but because that look of sympathy, that look of worry, that anxiety that he sees so clearly in his father's face, all of that is enough to break him. It's true in the metaphorical sense, too, that he has no idea how to be home, really home, here in New York or here at work or here anywhere. Maybe there is no home.
But that's not the only thing he doesn't know how to do. He has no idea how to relax, no idea how to turn off his mind, and that seems to be what Don is suggesting, and he simply can't do it. Or simply won't. There are too many things that could creep into his thoughts if he stopped thinking about this project, if he stopped typing away at the typewriter or stopped pondering the various pros and cons of Mallo-wiches.
"I don't know how to take a break," he says, and in some ways, he thinks Don will understand. He knows they're not as similar as he might like them to be (because he desperately wants to place Don into the same mold that he, himself, is cut from, yet he knows that it's an oversimplification to do so) but he knows that there are certain things that they share. That they must share, because they have a similar kind of spark, when it comes to advertising. Or... they had. He doesn't know whether either of them truly possess it anymore.
"When I was over there--" And he knows this isn't the direction Don wants to go in, knows that Don would probably like to do anything to get out of this conversation before it goes down that road again, but he can't help it. He can never hold back, can never resist bringing whatever he's thinking into the conversation, no matter how hard he tries. This is why he's been largely avoiding conversation. This is why he shouldn't run into anyone late at night in the office, when his inhibitions are even lower, anyway.
"-- I don't know if it was like this for you, maybe it wasn't, but it was worse to stop doing things, to have time to... think about everything that was going on. On days when nothing was happening, on days when we weren't in danger, when we weren't fighting, when the only thing I had to deal with was soul-crushing fucking boredom, I thought I'd go crazy. Maybe I did go crazy. It's worse to give yourself a break, sometimes."
He had been so goddamned productive over there, had been the kind of medic that he knew people must have appreciated having around, despite his obvious quirks and downfalls, but when he really pondered it good and hard, he had to admit to himself that a large amount of his seemingly boundless ability to perform tasks was due to a desire to avoid being left alone, idle, with nothing but his thoughts and worries to keep him company. The voices in his head could be drowned out by war, by violence, by fear and by guilt and by grief, and it bothered him sometimes, bothered him that, to some extent, it was easier to cope with those things than it was to cope with his own mind.
Don wants him to go outside and get fresh air? He can't even fathom it. The world inside this office building may be small, it may be uncomfortably stifling, at times, it may feel like the walls are closing in and threatening to crush him under their weight (the weight of the building itself, as well as the weight of all the expectations and emotions of everyone in the building, which he always seems to sense so clearly) but it's infinitely better than the world outside. The world outside is full of threats, and he always feels poised for combat out there, ready to spring into action at any moment.
How do people cope with it? How do they stop feeling threatened? Does Don feel threatened in this way, too, or has he learned to numb it? Is it time, or something else, that deadens that kind of instinctive response to the world around them?
no subject
How to what? How to go home? That's true enough, and not just in the literal sense, the sense that tells him that going home to his father is potentially dangerous, not because of anything his father will do but because that look of sympathy, that look of worry, that anxiety that he sees so clearly in his father's face, all of that is enough to break him. It's true in the metaphorical sense, too, that he has no idea how to be home, really home, here in New York or here at work or here anywhere. Maybe there is no home.
But that's not the only thing he doesn't know how to do. He has no idea how to relax, no idea how to turn off his mind, and that seems to be what Don is suggesting, and he simply can't do it. Or simply won't. There are too many things that could creep into his thoughts if he stopped thinking about this project, if he stopped typing away at the typewriter or stopped pondering the various pros and cons of Mallo-wiches.
"I don't know how to take a break," he says, and in some ways, he thinks Don will understand. He knows they're not as similar as he might like them to be (because he desperately wants to place Don into the same mold that he, himself, is cut from, yet he knows that it's an oversimplification to do so) but he knows that there are certain things that they share. That they must share, because they have a similar kind of spark, when it comes to advertising. Or... they had. He doesn't know whether either of them truly possess it anymore.
"When I was over there--" And he knows this isn't the direction Don wants to go in, knows that Don would probably like to do anything to get out of this conversation before it goes down that road again, but he can't help it. He can never hold back, can never resist bringing whatever he's thinking into the conversation, no matter how hard he tries. This is why he's been largely avoiding conversation. This is why he shouldn't run into anyone late at night in the office, when his inhibitions are even lower, anyway.
"-- I don't know if it was like this for you, maybe it wasn't, but it was worse to stop doing things, to have time to... think about everything that was going on. On days when nothing was happening, on days when we weren't in danger, when we weren't fighting, when the only thing I had to deal with was soul-crushing fucking boredom, I thought I'd go crazy. Maybe I did go crazy. It's worse to give yourself a break, sometimes."
He had been so goddamned productive over there, had been the kind of medic that he knew people must have appreciated having around, despite his obvious quirks and downfalls, but when he really pondered it good and hard, he had to admit to himself that a large amount of his seemingly boundless ability to perform tasks was due to a desire to avoid being left alone, idle, with nothing but his thoughts and worries to keep him company. The voices in his head could be drowned out by war, by violence, by fear and by guilt and by grief, and it bothered him sometimes, bothered him that, to some extent, it was easier to cope with those things than it was to cope with his own mind.
Don wants him to go outside and get fresh air? He can't even fathom it. The world inside this office building may be small, it may be uncomfortably stifling, at times, it may feel like the walls are closing in and threatening to crush him under their weight (the weight of the building itself, as well as the weight of all the expectations and emotions of everyone in the building, which he always seems to sense so clearly) but it's infinitely better than the world outside. The world outside is full of threats, and he always feels poised for combat out there, ready to spring into action at any moment.
How do people cope with it? How do they stop feeling threatened? Does Don feel threatened in this way, too, or has he learned to numb it? Is it time, or something else, that deadens that kind of instinctive response to the world around them?