Remind me again why I wanted to be a writer? Because these days I tend to forget. My pending graduation creeps around the corner, and right now the enormity of what my future, or lack of it, looks like weighs down on me like a ton of enormous futureless bricks. When you think about it, everything everyone ever said about pursuing an Arts degree is true… don’t do it.
Anytime any of my parents’ friends asked me my opinions on what their son or daughter wants to study, if they said it were The Arts, I would say “NO! Do anything else but! Do business, even though its generic, there’s a reason why… its secure…” I never encourage them to take it just because for one, its unlikely that you’d have what it takes to deal with all the crap people give you for taking it. Not that I regret anything I did in pursuing this degree, I loved it, I fought for it and defended it to the death, but if certainty is what you want, don’t study The Arts. Don’t be a writer, because the only certainty you have is that you would fail.
It was somewhere between Andrew’s lecture that the impossibility of me being an author finally set in, as in really, really hit. It dawned on me, like a black sheet floating…floating …. floating from the ceiling, descending, then finally covering the lecture hall of about a hundred students. I was covered, I no longer have hope. Or rather, its more accurate to say that I can no longer hope in my ‘authorship’.
But you know, its strange, I’m saying this like its an utter devastation, but I don’t feel like it at all. Not one bit. Even though I’m saying all this you would think I would be clamoring at anything solid, or finding my new raison d’etre, but I’m really very okay about this. Better than okay, the strangeness is that this reality of a dream dying is really sobering. Its like it took a turn on the phrase “what would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” to “What would you do if you knew that you would fail?”
My answer, somehow became “I’ll try anyway!” Since I already know the outcome, I’ll still do it, simply because I enjoy doing it. My end goal, became, not that I would be an accomplished writer, but my end goal simply is in taking that journey.
I never thought of myself as an existentialist, but that sounds pretty existentialist to me.
It’s like the analogy of Lord of the Rings. Frodo knew the impossibility of his getting the ring to Mordor. He knew the toll it would take on him. He knew what he could turn into. But he did it anyway, with Samwise the Brave, ever at his side.
Then the rain happened, and though its malaysia, it still gets cold when the gray rolls in. I found myself sitting outside the Plenary penning all this down and finding I’ve become quite comfortable in being undervalued. Not in the self-pity sort of way, but in the way that it has become my driving force. Because no one looks at me to do the greatness, I know that it gives me the room to grow according to my own terms, on my own time. Like a potato.
I am a potato. Growing in the earth, and when I’m finally ripe and ready, you’d make me into all sorts of awesome. Dipped in sauce, friend, mashed, baked, boiled. I know myself. and I know that I do not know what to do with attention, or people that give me compliments. I just say thank you and move along.
And here’s a happy song to get you by…
I’ve gotten into the habit of asking people to tell me jokes lately. its a quick fix to every time I feel sad. “sad” is such a five year old word by the way…