Friday, January 16, 2009

Destroy The Passion

The following is an exert from a journalish entry I did for my senior project book that I did in high school.

"Instead of working on this book I've been reading other people's work. When I'm done reading a book, I wish that I could write like the author. That if only I could be smart and creative and insightful and, most importantly, finish something I've started. I listen to music and I pick it apart and tell myself I could create something like that if I had the equipment and the talent. Which I suppose is true, but I don't do anything about it. I almost feel guilty when I go through these people's works. They slave and suffer and love what they do any they release it and they want to reach the masses and they keep doing it despite public criticism. I feel like I need to give something back so someone else could pick up something that I slaved over.

With senior year coming to a close and college coming much too quickly, I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do. I'd say that high school is like the waiting room and college is like being called into the doctor's office. Your mom lets you go in by yourself because you're a big boy now and you can find your way without her. Anyway, I've realized that I don't to do anything particular. I don't want to be stuck being a musician or a screenwriter or a teacher or an illustrator, although I would love to be all of those things. I guess when it comes down to a career, I want to be free to do as I please and to change professions when one seems stale or boring or confining. In the real world it doesn't work like this. I almost want to get stuck in a white collar software writing job with a cubicle and a lunch hour and a car pool and a coffee machine and coworkers that hate their job more than I do. That way I would still love to write and play music and draw and I wouldn't have to choose just one because I could do them all and not take them for granted. I would cherish each chord and each picture that didn't come out quite the way I wanted it to, but just because it didn't turn out exactly as I wanted it to doesn't mean I didn't like it. I could stare at my keyboard and make business calls but secretly be counting down the hours and the seconds to when I could clock out and say goodbye to Harold and Margaret, who are working a later shift than me, and take the turnpike home and drive the speak limit, even if all the other cars pass me, and I would still have enough energy to put together song lyrics and find the right spot for the capo on the neck of my guitar. If I'm going to make a career out of something and end up hating it, I'd rather I didn't care about it to begin with. I would have to destroy the passion of something I truly loved.

I woke up at 10:00 this morning because I stayed up until 4:30, due to a problem I have getting to sleep. It happens once in a while. I read some and ate waffles and then just lied awake. I thought about her and how I want everything to stay the way it is, although I tell myself it would be nice to change things, but then it wouldn't be as safe. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself, so I'll leave it for another night when I'm lying awake, tossing and turning and checking the time and turning the heat on and off and on and back off again."

Speak easy,

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