A deception made for personal gain.
I suppose a Bi-weekly paycheck could be viewed as “personal gain;” I mean, I gain from this check, personally. This is a bit how I view my life. Not day, to day, perhaps. I don’t everyday think, “What I’m doing is personal fraud,” but at times when I’m being contemplative, I do.
When I say I feel as if my life is fraudulent; I mean I just don’t know if how I earn my paycheck is necessarily how I was ‘meant’ to live my life. This is assuming first, of course, that I was meant to do anything with my life. If Any of us are. But, you know people have dreams, or something, right? I think I did. I think I imagined greatness on some scale. A great one, probably, the scale. But, I think we all did. We all imagined we would do something great: Astronaut, King of the world, Queen of the lands, unicorn wrangler, smurf collector, magician, space pirate, curer of the world.
It boils down to… “I thought I would do something that mattered.” AND “People would remember me after I died.”
When I was a kid, I loved to put ‘treasure’ in mason jars and bury them in my backyard. When I say ‘treasure’ I mean: buttons, drawings, shiny things, snail shells, rocks. Real treasure. And then I would draw a treasure map so that one day someone could find what I had buried and be happy with their find. I really was burying someone else’s little Eureka!
It’s a cute story, sure. Kids burying treasure…adorable. But I don’t want this to be my legacy, you know? I don’t want a dug up mason jar, just several feet from a hamster skeleton in a shoebox, to be how I’m remembered. And I, personally won’t be the one remembered. It’ll just be in the thought of, “Gee I wonder who buried a jar of 3 buckeyes, an agate, a geode, and a pearl* button punched shell.” And then I’m gone for good. Just a great great great uncle. A twig on a tree. The saga of the gay man who will most likely choose not to adopt or turkey baste.
And that’s fine. I’m sure this rant isn’t about the egotistical sadness involved in “not seeing may face in the eyes of a child’s.” Is it? No, I don’t think so. I think it’s in the egotistical sadness of ending; living and then just dying. The End. And there will be some nice stuff along the way, of course. I have a wonderful partner to share life with now, and hopefully till the end…so the the nice stuff will be there. Pleasant stuff, and perhaps some exciting stuff…but will I look back and say, “I’m pleased with what I’m leaving behind. I changed the world.”
And then there’s the question, “Does everyone need to change the world?” And just how wonderful the world would be if everyone tried…instead of bloggin’ about it into the neterscape like an echo in a cup. And I would be guilty of that. I tend to think of myself as one of those ‘support’ kind of people. You know? Can help anyone out with their problems, an innate ability to read people, and interpret human nature…but has no idea what they truly want.
I have no idea what I want. But what I’m pretty sure is I’m not quite getting it right. Or maybe just thinks there’s supposed to be more. By now. If not now, when? When I’m 40? When I’m 50? At my deathbed will I say under my breath with a grin… “Ahhhh. Now I see. There truly is nothing to be left behind.”
*While I was writing this I remembered when I was about 10 or so, the kids in the neighborhood used to play by the “woods” in the alley. We would sift through the gravel in the alley for ‘shiny’ rocks, and we would a lot of times find clam shells with many holes punched in them. Someone told be they were the shells left over from buttons made from them. The insides of the shells were pearlescent like oil floating on water. The clams were harvested from the Mississippi. I wonder if I’ll ever realize just how much I appreciated growing up in along the Mississippi river. “M-I_Crooked Letter- Crooked letter I, Crooked Letter- Crooked letter I, Humpback-Humpback-I.” That’s how a grade school teacher taught me how to remember how to spell Mississippi. O.M.G. I sound really…really…OLD.