Musings on Ambition and Career
**Another post from my old EasyJournal. I almost didn't include it because of its personal nature, but then I re-read it and thought that some of its ideas were interesting. Basically, I'm a big dreamer always searching for my "right livelihood"--that is, the profession that I am meant to be in and that I will be happiest doing. I was really getting down on myself with these two posts, but I think the song I was quoting really caught the essence of how I felt. All of us have probably feared from time to time that our works will not endure and that our lives will not matter in the long run. Thus, I hope you as readers can relate to this post.
As always, bon appetit!
--LL
5.24.2004 // Paper in Fire (Part One)
Posted at 12:29 AM
Hwaet...
I find the emotional self not doing so well lately. And believe me, it does color all other aspects of life. When we ask someone "how are you", what we really mean is "How is your health?" and/or "What is your emotional state?" Most always, we mean the second one. Often, we ask this question without expecting an answer, or simply assuming that the answer is "Fine, and you?" But the focus on the "emotional state" is definitely there.
So back to that emotional state of mine. It can be hard to pinpoint what's bringing me down. Is it high expectations or the lack of them? My expectations, or those of others? I'd already mentioned the difficulty writing...
"She had a dream/and boy it was a good one./So she chased after her dream/with much desire..."
...and nothing much has happened on it as of late. Rephrase: I haven't *done* anything with it as of late. Was I scared of my success?
"...but when she got to close to her expectation..."
What is it that leads us to be dissatisfied with the moment? What causes ambition? Is it guilt, that we have not accomplished enough? Is it mortality, and the fear of it, the fear that what we do will not endure? Is it embedded in us by a consumeristic society? Or by the Puritan work ethic, the fear of laziness?
It often seems to me that much of my life is motivated by fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of boredom. Fear of being worthless. Fear of never reaching the dreams I've cherished all my life.
"...Well her dreams burned up..."
I used to describe myself as a vivid flame. It seemed that I could never find anyone who matched my intensity. In my darker moments, I feared that I would always go through life burning vividly but never understood.
Now my flame has become a swamp. Still deep, still thick, but watered-down.
In my darker moments, I fear that it is a ridiculous thing to be intense...and that if I give it up, nothing will be there to replace it.
"...like paper in fire!"
I've burnt paper several times for various reasons. Each time, I'm always startled by how quickly it catches and how completely it burns. When I think of fire destroying things, I usually think of the hulking, charred remains of a building. Paper burns to a very thin, very fine ash, and one is left with the impression that its substance vanished in the smoke.
I spin dreams at lightning speed. They fly out of my head every day anew, always enrapturing me completely...for a very brief while. I want to play the violin. I have this plan in my head, of how I will rent a violin and pay it off while I take lessons. I remember that I do not have a car to go to lessons with. And this being because all my previous attempts to save up for a car have been unsuccessful.
I remember that I am late paying my rent. I remember that I must save for a bridesmaid's dress this summer. I remember that I have presents to buy for people and debts to pay off.
So I chide myself for wanting to play violin at this age, that almost 21 is too old to start an insturment. Why don't I focus on something I am already good at, something that will make me money? Money will bring me security and comfort and let me buy many CD's and concert tickets so I can hear all the violin I want, played more skillfully than I could ever do it.
Has it been my life's dream to play the violin? Of course not! I tried it one summer and broke my arm, so I had to leave off my lessons, and I haven't touched one since.
So why does this kind of thing make me so sad?
Because I'm afraid that I'm paper. And that under my fire, there is no more substance to me than air.
--M.
[Note: I used the name "Maiken" on my old journal. --LL]