Wind
I stand on my balcony and close my eyes, and a cool wind swirls around me, gently caressing me with its invisible hands. There is a scent on that wind; no, not just one scent, but a dozen, a thousand. There is the mouth-watering smell of fresh pies from the nearby bakery, the intoxicating perfume of a young girl awaiting her lover. There are other scents too, from far away. Enchanting jungle flowers growing in the heart of the dwindling Amazon rainforest. Penguins waddling across a shrinking ice shelf at the edge of the Antarctic. The sour breath of a sailor drinking his worries away in a seedy bar in New York City. The healthy sweat of a tribesman in the dark heart of Africa, hunting animals, untouched by the modern world.
These scents, they mesmerize me. Suddendly, any place in the world seems better than here, better than this lone room with its bed and desk and closet and blinking digital clock. Take me away, I cry. Away from a world that seems to be turning gray as I spend more time in it, comfortingly familiar yet dreadfully ordinary. I am a dreamer, yearning for a different time, a different place. Not necessarily a better place, just a different one. If I had wings, I could glide away on that wind, in search of wonder and adventure.
No wings for this girl though, no great journey, no grand experiences that would burn my name into the history book. I cannot fly, I can only sit and write, write about how unfortunately ordinary I am. And therein lies an even greater tragedy. I am not the first, or the last, or the best to bemoan her dull fate. Since time immemorial, humanity has tried to ride the wind. Icarus was not the first, but he was the first we remember, and his great failure is our failure as well. No matter how much we may accomplish, we always yearn for something more, something far grander than any of our tiny mortal triumphs. Alexander came out of Macedonia and conquered. His armies marched all across the known world, and it is said he never lost a battle. A great man, and one we still remember two thousand and three hundrd years later. Yet it is also said that he wept once he realized there were no more worlds to conquer. A man like that was not happy with his accomplishments, and he wept as the wind stroked his cheek. There were no more worlds he could reach - from that moment he was doomed to the ordinary, the familiar.
If he was not satisfied with his triumphs, how can I be happy with mine? What have I done? I graduated university with impressive marks, and I participated in a number of rather pleasant events. But what does that matter? Who cares? Who will remember? People will not remember me. I am no explorer, no conqueror. I am no Icarus, no Alexander, no Columbus, no Napoleon, no Cook. The real world offers no wondrous new places for me to discover. The Earth is growing old, and the stars are out of my reach. All I could do is speak, write, let my words be carried by the wind. But I cannot even do that. Thousands of artists have come before me, and thousand will come after. All of them hunched over their desks, writing sad tales and heart-rending poems. Most of them better than me, more articulate, more inspired. Perhaps they deserve to be remembered. Certainly I do not, with my miniscule talent and my tiny triumphs.
Since my earliest years, people have told me that I am talented, that I am intelligent, that I am creative, that I will go far. But they neglected to mention that, as talented as I am, I cannot possibly make my mark on the world. Some of my friends describe themselves as extremely ambitious. I was, too, until I realized how little my ambitions meant to the rest of the world. Work on your grand student project, Vanessa. Work on it, worry about it, put a little piece of yourself into it. When you're finished, show it off proudly to anyone who will see, anyone who will listen. In five years you will be the only person to remember it. Congratulations.
So why bother? The answer has been heard so many times that it has become trite. For yourself. Don't worry if no one else cares, it is enough that you care, because you're the important one. Your work helped you grow immeasurably as a person, and you are richer as a result. But am I really? Am I a better person because of my accomplishments or are they just little distractions to make myself feel better?
I don't know. I don't even know that. But I'll probably keep working on my projects, keep writing down my little musings. After all, what else is there to do?
These scents, they mesmerize me. Suddendly, any place in the world seems better than here, better than this lone room with its bed and desk and closet and blinking digital clock. Take me away, I cry. Away from a world that seems to be turning gray as I spend more time in it, comfortingly familiar yet dreadfully ordinary. I am a dreamer, yearning for a different time, a different place. Not necessarily a better place, just a different one. If I had wings, I could glide away on that wind, in search of wonder and adventure.
No wings for this girl though, no great journey, no grand experiences that would burn my name into the history book. I cannot fly, I can only sit and write, write about how unfortunately ordinary I am. And therein lies an even greater tragedy. I am not the first, or the last, or the best to bemoan her dull fate. Since time immemorial, humanity has tried to ride the wind. Icarus was not the first, but he was the first we remember, and his great failure is our failure as well. No matter how much we may accomplish, we always yearn for something more, something far grander than any of our tiny mortal triumphs. Alexander came out of Macedonia and conquered. His armies marched all across the known world, and it is said he never lost a battle. A great man, and one we still remember two thousand and three hundrd years later. Yet it is also said that he wept once he realized there were no more worlds to conquer. A man like that was not happy with his accomplishments, and he wept as the wind stroked his cheek. There were no more worlds he could reach - from that moment he was doomed to the ordinary, the familiar.
If he was not satisfied with his triumphs, how can I be happy with mine? What have I done? I graduated university with impressive marks, and I participated in a number of rather pleasant events. But what does that matter? Who cares? Who will remember? People will not remember me. I am no explorer, no conqueror. I am no Icarus, no Alexander, no Columbus, no Napoleon, no Cook. The real world offers no wondrous new places for me to discover. The Earth is growing old, and the stars are out of my reach. All I could do is speak, write, let my words be carried by the wind. But I cannot even do that. Thousands of artists have come before me, and thousand will come after. All of them hunched over their desks, writing sad tales and heart-rending poems. Most of them better than me, more articulate, more inspired. Perhaps they deserve to be remembered. Certainly I do not, with my miniscule talent and my tiny triumphs.
Since my earliest years, people have told me that I am talented, that I am intelligent, that I am creative, that I will go far. But they neglected to mention that, as talented as I am, I cannot possibly make my mark on the world. Some of my friends describe themselves as extremely ambitious. I was, too, until I realized how little my ambitions meant to the rest of the world. Work on your grand student project, Vanessa. Work on it, worry about it, put a little piece of yourself into it. When you're finished, show it off proudly to anyone who will see, anyone who will listen. In five years you will be the only person to remember it. Congratulations.
So why bother? The answer has been heard so many times that it has become trite. For yourself. Don't worry if no one else cares, it is enough that you care, because you're the important one. Your work helped you grow immeasurably as a person, and you are richer as a result. But am I really? Am I a better person because of my accomplishments or are they just little distractions to make myself feel better?
I don't know. I don't even know that. But I'll probably keep working on my projects, keep writing down my little musings. After all, what else is there to do?