The flight of the birds

I don't believe in destiny, but I do believe that there is a certain inevitability about me living a long life.

I eat well, workout well, and have a desire to get better as I age. My bad habits, which are rare in the first place, have lessened over time. I get myself out of trouble by teaching karate on Saturday mornings; it means that there is no drinking on Friday nights.

There is rarely any drinking at all. I want to surround myself with my family and friends. I want to laugh and lighten the mood. Life never gets boring, because there is always something to say. Something to smile about.

Yes, it all seems boring, and fairytale. Some days are harder than others. I haven't reached my potential at work. I don't think I've reached my physical peak, even though I have the ability to. There are certain things I have procrastinated about.

But each of those problems having solutions which excite me. When I open a new book to read, when I learn a new exercise, when my body and mind are sore, that is when I'm at my strongest.

I think as I have aged, I've become more extroverted. When I was in high school, there felt like there was some dark secret inside of me. A fire that burned bright; I felt as if I could devour the world. My dreams, which glowed brightly but were utterly empty, had a sort of ethereal quality to them. They could not be touched, by me or rather, by anyone, which is what made them so sacred. I would lay in the corner of a study hall writing into the late hours of night, at times. At times, all I wanted was to be alone and without earthly responsibility. I didn't know how important it was. That responsibility is the center of all meaning. I wanted to fly.

University is when it all went to shit. When the contents of my dreams revealed to me what kind of man I was for having them. I had to face the truth; real life and all. After I graduated, I was lost for several months. I thought that my dreams were shameful, so I was dream-less. I would walk around aimlessly on Monday nights around my neighborhood after work and quietly scream. I looked into virtual representations of other peoples' lives and became jealous. Not because I wanted to be them, but because I wanted to be with them.

I didn't want to be alone.

After a lot of self reflection, I took a good look at my demons. They were not an excitable bunch. They were just thoughts I had late at night, when no one else was around. I would write sometimes, but I felt my creativity was dulling. I wasn't answering to the call! The call of being an artist. The call of the dream which always existed. Which was not mine, but a collective dream of all of humanity. I didn't know what that was. It was enough to know that it was there.

The strangest thing about negative thoughts is that there is a certain allure, a certain intoxication of them persisting over time. If you are the type of person(as I admittedly was) who is lazy, circumspect, has interesting thoughts but does not use them for anything concrete, it becomes an addiction to go down a rabbit hole where life is slightly more challenging for the price of a little heart break.

I can't write seriously anymore. It feels like the fire that once shook my life first confused me, then left me. It was abrupt. I don't know if my creativity is dulling or if I'm simply too much of a perfectionist now. My real theory more is twisted. It is that negative emotions fueled my writing, and now that they are gone, the price I had to pay for my happiness was talent. It's a horrifying thought, but somehow deeply comforting at the same time. I know now what it must take people years to find out. People who are very good at something often have very shitty lives.

I wish I could say something about flying. About balancing the two acts; your personal life and professional life. I wish I could tell you that you can be great while being a great person. I look at the flight of birds, and wonder about their families. Do they sing because they have survived, or they survive because they sing?