Monday, January 31
I have sat here looking at this screen for over an hour and a half. I'll type a few lines, then read them and realize what I've said sounds remarkably stupid, or cliched, or too philosophical for me. I'll hit Backspace and then I'm met again with a blank text box. So I repeat my actions, type a few more lines, maybe lyrics this time, or the first part of a story. But then I reread them and realize what I've said sounds juvenile, or worse, like a cheap, poorly written knockoff of someone better's work. Isn't that the way it is. Everything we do has been done before. Song written for someone we love? Done. Scrambled eggs for dinner? Done. Tank top and jeans? Done. That's a pity. Because what is the point for so much of our life, if not to be able to say we were the first to do something. I envy Hillary and Norgay, I'm jealous of Peter and Marie Curie, I wish avidly that I were Steinbeck or Hemingway. They broke ground, they were the pioneers of their fields. Perhaps Steinbeck and Hemingway weren't the first men to take pen to paper and give people wings with their words. But nonetheless, they will be remembered. What will I be remembered for? What will people connect with my name? What will bear my mark long after I am gone? Will anyone remember me? People try to comfort each other with lines like, "Don't worry, you are young, you have time. Enjoy your youth, you'll have time to think about stuff like that when you are old." What futile encouragment.... Time is fleeting, and if squandered now, in the enjoyment of youth, it will be lost forever. For the time being I console myself with the fact that I may have already made a mark. Perhaps made an indelibly lasting impact on someone's life. And that I will use what time I do have, to make a greater impact. I won't settle for mediocrity but will challenge myself to excellence.