This is a diary passage I wrote on August 8th,2012.
“What the fuck is my purpose?”
Let’s go back, way back, to high school graduation. What a proud day that you were so over being a part of. Although you acted like you were too cool for the tassels and gown, a trickling stream of ambitions had begun and you knew somewhere deep down that your destiny and boundless potential were just waiting over the horizon (If only this fucking ceremony would end!). You spent the last summer at home as recklessly as possible and then off to college you went.
For most of us, this is where the trickle of ambition became a stream. By senior year of college you had a few internships, a portfolio of well-scored collegiate work and you knew you would make it. The countdown begins until you can earn a great salary and start using all these years of schooling.
The dream of riding off into the sunset was in reality
more like being blinded by the sun while driving, and then hitting a heard of baby animals, killing them all on impact a lot more depressing.
When the excitment of your first “real job” and the novelty of wearing business casual clothes wears off you realize “holy shit, this is my life, like until I’m 65.” Horrified by this life sentence you consider ways of making money without having to work 40 hours a week. “Maybe I’ll be a
drug dealer, or sell thing on ebay or become a teacher so I can keep my summers for myself. Was I ever good enough at any type of art to make a living from it? What about connections: do I know any single, very rich people? How can I make that work for me?”
Weeks, then months pass and the desperation settles into a cool numbness. Your angst is almost undetectable except Sunday nights and early morning rises, you develop stock work-appropriate clothing pairings and fall into the fold of complacency. “This is the next 45 years? I hope I can buy a house from this, and have some sweet stock options?”
Pulling into work one day you put the car in park and place your head on the steering wheel for a few moments of internal pep talk. Out of the corner of your eye, something shiny pulls in next to you and you look up as
the corporate wet dreama mid-level exec. parks their BMW, swiftly exiting the car and heading straight for their office.
Could you become that? The line from here, wishing you would have driven you car over the closest border into another country, to there: koolaid guzzling champion, is not probable (and not desired).
” Is my dignity worth a corner office and a company car?”
You get out of the car and realize that as long as you keep your head down, things will work out.
End of Part One.