Thursday, December 9, 2010
It is wearisome, trying to optimistic and hopeful for the turns of the future. It is wearisome because people, who are almost universally jaded by unmet expectations and overwhelming disappointments are persistent in their constant reminders of how futile any sense of hope really is. It is wearisome because life itself, as a process, rarely (if ever) rewards optimism. I am realizing today that smiles and happy thoughts will "do you for a spell" but eventually it's time to grow up. You don't get what you want. Furthermore, you don't have any clue what will make you happy. I've dared to think of myself as a writer, for instance, and in the strictest sense that's true. I do write. I do have a story to write. I do feel the inescapable need to write that story. However, life has made it clear that I am not a writer in any of the financial senses I had hoped. What I am is a drone. I am uneducated and worth very little in the workplace. Which means I am capable of menial jobs and very little income. There is nothing more grand to me than that. While I may aspire to greater things, reality doesn't lie. Every drone can have dreams. But dreams don't make you more than what you are. They just give you a little hope until life finally takes it away.