I have come to realize, soon enough I presume, that I am neither as old nor as incompetently famous as I should be in order to write a memoir yet. Let us just say that not enough water has passed under my bridge. Hell, let us just really say that I don’t think I’ve even started to build the stupid bridge yet, never mind the water. But anyway, I have come to the realization that I’m not as qualified as I should be in order to write a memoir.
I say should (yes, I write, not say, believe me I know! Just bear with me…) simply because nobody would listen to the words of a young fiddler; hypothetically, there is no legitimacy in his tale, no real substance, no tact. Blues singers would growl at me saying I haven’t paid my dues yet and, sure enough, they would be right. But this is not a matter of whether I should or shouldn’t anymore, it is just a matter of whether I can or cannot do it. And that, my fellow friends, is a whole different monster altogether.
So here I am, ready to unleash the spiel. Fed up, already frustrated, and armed with the purported liberties of free time. But why do I saturate this transparent medium with my almost idiotic rambling, time and time again, you may ask? Well, folks, the answer is simple. Because I believe that we all have dreams – really crazy dreams, that is – which need to be fulfilled, or at least pursued with absolute conviction. So again, why do I do this? Well, because I want us all to go bananas and just work towards the fulfillment of those dreams.
I know, I know, it seems highly idealistic and painfully predictable at best for a young adult to be so optimistic and full of hope; eventually, I will suffer better things in life but, as of this particular moment, I simply can’t help myself. So, without further ado, let me serve you this philosophical dish accordingly. I promise to be brief (as the title implies, duh).
The distance between a man and his dream is the man.
Yeah, it’s so simple, so basic, and so fundamental that I even feel like it needs no further elaboration. If you want something, then it is completely up to you to fetch it. Screw luck, forget about chance and just take fear and all of its stupefying army for a dance. Sure enough, you will notice how gratifying it is to do nothing else but the one thing you love. It doesn’t matter how well you do it as long as you love it with all your heart. And dammit, THAT is what they should teach us in school!
I must give you, though – and against my very own will – one piece of advice. And as you read this please remember that it is always easier to give advice than it is to take it (by the way, the people who give advice are the ones who need it the most). And if you actually read the previous parenthesis then you’ll realize how contradictory my logic is, and, consequently, how paradoxical our very nature is, too. Oh, life is a daunting study in contradictions. Here, however, is my advice: Do not ever ask anyone other than yourself to believe in you. Why not? Because they cannot see what you see within yourself, and, most importantly, because both your conviction and devotion towards your craft – whatever it may be in your particular case – are what will attract true respect and honest admiration from others, and not your plead for consensual understanding.
Allow me to clarify. For instance, in my specific case (yeah, I’m an egomaniac), I believe I have found refuge in the art of writing, for in it I see an oasis of expression amidst a windy dessert of deaf, ever-changing dunes. So, you tell me now, who will be able to explain why this practice unravels me so exquisitely? Is it because I love to pretend that I know what I’m talking about? Or, is it maybe that I really don’t, and I’m just pouring all of my tools on top of the wooden table so that you see what I see?
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Kurt Vonnegut, a true inspiration. |
In a humble (I’m lying, I’m not humble) effort to be honest I’ll say the following about writing: I write not because I wish to disseminate a cheap lesson on post-college pedantry, but rather, I write because I’m still very curious. I feel like the less we know about something, the more we should learn about it and, incidentally, the less we know of it (repeat cycle numerous times if you wish to go completely crazy).
Curiosity is the basis to all successful, pedagogical procedures. And writing is my classroom. I learn as I type. I accept as I discover. I forget as I share.
My point is we should never give up our dreams because, unfortunately, once we do so, we also give up our curiosity and, as a result, a part of our creativity evaporates, with our imagination being grandly severed. Creativity, my friends, is the key to a not-so-overwhelmingly-pathetic life.
I really hope you bear with me on this one. I truly hope I never have to write as blatantly and straightforwardly again. I usually enjoy myself much more when I use metaphors and convoluted analogies, and polysyllables. I am a pretentious adept to Wilde’s school of art, and I know aesthetics are to be honored in more sophisticated fashions, for in exaggeration lies the secret of poetry, and in the gardens of poetry rests a secret of blinding beauty. This piece is but a mere reaction, an impulse; a study in contradictions and a lesson in ill-conceived style as well, I suppose. Now, essentially, I guess it all comes down to this: Your dreams (yes, we are still talking about them apparently) will save your life, and your mistakes will make you wise, and knowledge will make you miserable. Use art, enlighten us all with your creativity and with your reactions to life. And please, don't ever stop poking around.
I’ll leave you all with a quote, potential food for thought, I hope:
“We are here on Earth to fart around. Don’t let anybody tell you any different.” Thank you, Mr. Vonnegut. Thank you so much.
*I apologize, but since the whole “dreams” topic got so old and boring, I decided to turn this piece into an old man’s growl. Mind this as just some random note. Cheers!
