It is a new year...
If you bemoan the fact that you have no stories left to tell, then you certainly will not see the stories that are at your feet... BUT who planted the idea in your head that everyone had a story to tell anyway? Isn't it true that there are certain people who flash through life like a meteorite, without rhyme or reason, and the rest of us try to figure them out for the rest of our lives? We use analysis, reason, philosophy, whatever we have at our disposal, to "make sense" of what they have done. Some things we classify as the cruel, and others as the beautiful, but in truth, the words we use to attempt to describe these things are woefully inadequate, and too late...
I have had nothing significant happen to me. I have not the soul to blind the world. I am a pedantic fool. I have great ambitions, I suppose, but there is little else within me to support those ambitions. I am a great believer in rationality, and systematic strategy. I attack everything in my world with that in mind. I have lived long enough to understand the folly of overreaching oneself. Wars are not won through reckless campaigns. It is only through pressure, over time, and pressure in the right places over time, that wins out. And by "wins out," there is always the realization that what we accomplish in life is only temporary, it is always only temporary...
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The wings of the world spreading out towards the horizons. I will fly upon the winds of fortune... I keep repeating the words of the W.B. Yeats poem, like a mantra: "A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds." I don't truly know what it means, for I have never had the courage to risk everything above an abyss. Again, I have always been pedantic. And I have always been practical. I invest in those around me. It is a safe bet. To invest in the dreams and whims of myself, well, that I have always seen as "speculative," in the most negative sense of the term...
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