I’m blogging almost exclusively because I haven’t done so in more than a week.
I read a friend’s blog, and the jealousy hits me. I want to write like that. I want to give you as clear a picture of my life as he does of his.
And yet, the picture he paints is not as clear as his words suggest to my mind, because I know that there are pieces missing. There are always pieces missing. That is what we writers do. We give you just enough of the picture so that you think you have it all, but we hide away our secrets, whether it be by cipher or plain silence.
As I write, the words are intoxicating. It’s like having the first glass of red wine after a long period of prohibition. Just the smell alone leaves you a little tipsy (and you think yourself far more clever than you really are).
Lately, I’ve made great fanfare of announcing myself as officially old. A quarter of a century has passed me by and I feel at once irrevocably old and painfully young.
I feel as if there is so much I could have already done with my life and yet all it has amounted to is unfilled potential. I know already that my life has glanced off of a trajectory for greatness–assuming it were ever on one, but at the same time, I feel as if I’ve grabbed hold of the steering wheel and jerked away from certain catastrophe at the last possible moment.
My failures are legion, but the failures passed on by my lineage and my raising that I’ve reversed are even more.
I’m not a Stanford-trained engineer. I won’t be a Rhodes scholar. I’ll never be famous or infamous.
But I am a success, even if I am the only person who will ever notice.