James sat awkwardly as Joanna stared intently at him. He didn't know what to do with himself, but Joanna had specifically told him not to move. He could feel his face blaring up, and he wanted to turn away and hide himself, but he knew perfectly well that if he did so Joanna would slap him and make him keep sitting there.
"Joanna?" he asked quietly. "What are you doing? Why do I have to sit here like this?"
"I'm looking at your eyes," Joanna said flatly. "Now be quiet. This is important."
"But why the hell are you staring at my eyes?" he asked, desperate now. He could feel his cheeks blazing harder at her words. He felt even shier about himself now that he knew exactly what she was doing. He didn't want to admit it, but he had liked her for a long time. He never said anything about it, though, because he was afraid of how she might respond. He didn't want to have to face her rejection.
"Would you just be quiet?" she retorted. "Is it not enough of an answer for you that this is important to me? You always help me out when things are important."
"Yeah, but this is so weird. Staring into people's eyes isn't something that you just... do. That's a thing that, like... couples do." James could feel his face burning even hotter at his own words. He had to imagine that his face was as red as a tomato. He didn't think that he could blush any harder, but knowing Joanna, she would find a way to do it.
"Because they're pretty," she stated matter of factly. "When I look into them, they make me feel like I'm flying through space, and seeing wonders that no one else has ever seen. And they're making me think about things I want to do, and things I want to say, and I want to experience that. So be quiet and let me focus on them."
James could hear an inexplicable noise escaping his lips as she spoke, and he felt like his entire head was on fire. Before he could think about what he was doing, he pulled his head away violently and covered his face with his hands. Almost immediately, he could feel Joanna's hand making contact with the side of his head.
"James!" she cried out. "What are you doing? I told you this was important to me!"
"Yeah, but..." James replied pathetically. "It's so embarassing and..."
Joanna pulled his head back to face her, and pulled his hands away from her face. Before he could say anything, her lips were pressed hard against his in a kiss. His eyes flew wide open, but in only a moment he had melted into it and practically fallen against her. Slowly she pulled away from him, and he looked into her eyes, both confused and joyful.
Joanna smiled at him. "Good. Now stay that way."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied quietly.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Friday, March 6, 2015
Writing fields
I've been a gamer for pretty much my entire life, and it has its advantages and disadvantages. I get to experience stories in a way that no book, tv show, or move could ever convey them. But games also take significantly longer to tell their stories, and so I don't get to experience as many. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. I've learned to pick the games that I know I'll enjoy, and I've found key ways of telling early on the quality of a game's story. I'd try to explain them, but it's really more of a feeling kind of thing than anything else. Sorry about that.
When I was younger, I thought for a while about making my own games. I even went to a camp that taught you how to make them. Turns out, I'm really bad at game design. So I kinda stopped thinking about that, and I turned to books, which I had always enjoyed, and had even tried to write my own. I approached them with more concentration, more focus.
But I've found with time that my connection to games is too heavy. I want to write my books with the aspects of some of the things from games that make my love them so much. This is especially true when it comes to fight scenes, which is one of my more favorable scenes. It can be difficult to portray what exactly is going on without visuals. I want certain things to happen, and being able to see them makes that easy. But being constrained by words makes it significantly more challenging. It's not that it's not possible, it's just that I have trouble finding the words. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, after all, and in some cases you simply have to agree.
Every once in a while, my mind drifts back to that childhood concept of making games. As I've grown older, I've started realizing that I'm not actually interested in making the game itself. Rather, I want to tell a game's story. I would love to write the script for a game, have an input on how things happen, and why. The problem with that is that I've spent all of my life focusing my writing on a novel style. There's nothing wrong with that, and I love writing books. But it does make that concept of writing for a game, which has been part of me for a long time, difficult to attain.
I don't know if that is ever something that I would truly pursue. Would I love for it to? Certainly. The thought of my story being translated into picture, and then further into something that a person actively has to take part in, is amazing and enticing. However, if it were going to happen, it would be much more likely to be dependent on a book I write being made into a movie, and then that movie being made into a game. And if you've ever seen something like that happen, you know it isn't pretty. There's just so much that can be, and is, lost in translation. You lose so much meaning as you try to move from one medium to another.
Sometimes I imagine being the person that makes it work. It's not like it hasn't before. The Lord of the Ring is an excellent example. Sure, not all of the games made for that series are great, or even good, but there are some stand out titles. I don't think that I could ever reach the heights of Lord of the Ring, nor do I particularly want to. But thinking that I could write something that could go down that path is invigorating.
It takes a lot of time and effort and skill to be able to write, regardless of what field you are writing in. And those fields aren't necessarily going to be able to cross over in to each other. It's unfortunate, but it's true. I'd love to work with people who write in different fields, see their thought processes, try to understand what their goals are and how they're attaining them. I feel like I could learn a lot from them, and hopefully they could learn from me. And maybe then we could take what we've learned, and each be able to make our own writings stronger. I think that would be pretty cool.
When I was younger, I thought for a while about making my own games. I even went to a camp that taught you how to make them. Turns out, I'm really bad at game design. So I kinda stopped thinking about that, and I turned to books, which I had always enjoyed, and had even tried to write my own. I approached them with more concentration, more focus.
But I've found with time that my connection to games is too heavy. I want to write my books with the aspects of some of the things from games that make my love them so much. This is especially true when it comes to fight scenes, which is one of my more favorable scenes. It can be difficult to portray what exactly is going on without visuals. I want certain things to happen, and being able to see them makes that easy. But being constrained by words makes it significantly more challenging. It's not that it's not possible, it's just that I have trouble finding the words. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, after all, and in some cases you simply have to agree.
Every once in a while, my mind drifts back to that childhood concept of making games. As I've grown older, I've started realizing that I'm not actually interested in making the game itself. Rather, I want to tell a game's story. I would love to write the script for a game, have an input on how things happen, and why. The problem with that is that I've spent all of my life focusing my writing on a novel style. There's nothing wrong with that, and I love writing books. But it does make that concept of writing for a game, which has been part of me for a long time, difficult to attain.
I don't know if that is ever something that I would truly pursue. Would I love for it to? Certainly. The thought of my story being translated into picture, and then further into something that a person actively has to take part in, is amazing and enticing. However, if it were going to happen, it would be much more likely to be dependent on a book I write being made into a movie, and then that movie being made into a game. And if you've ever seen something like that happen, you know it isn't pretty. There's just so much that can be, and is, lost in translation. You lose so much meaning as you try to move from one medium to another.
Sometimes I imagine being the person that makes it work. It's not like it hasn't before. The Lord of the Ring is an excellent example. Sure, not all of the games made for that series are great, or even good, but there are some stand out titles. I don't think that I could ever reach the heights of Lord of the Ring, nor do I particularly want to. But thinking that I could write something that could go down that path is invigorating.
It takes a lot of time and effort and skill to be able to write, regardless of what field you are writing in. And those fields aren't necessarily going to be able to cross over in to each other. It's unfortunate, but it's true. I'd love to work with people who write in different fields, see their thought processes, try to understand what their goals are and how they're attaining them. I feel like I could learn a lot from them, and hopefully they could learn from me. And maybe then we could take what we've learned, and each be able to make our own writings stronger. I think that would be pretty cool.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Why I write what I write
It's probably not much of a surprise for me to say that I prefer to write stories with happy endings. I know it's cliche, and expected, but to be frank, I don't care. Call it cliche all you want, but look at all of the stories out there that get recognition. How many of them have happy endings? I mean really. From the books that are taught in schools to the ones that get made into movies, how many of them have happy endings? Especially in more recent years. I'd say lately, sad endings have become far more cliche than happy endings.
And I think that's bullshit. I think the world needs happy stories. There's too much sadness, too much anger, and too much fear. Those stories need to be told too, surely, but not to the frequency that they have been as of late. I fear for the day a story having a happy ending is considered the bold choice. And lately it seems like we're getting closer and closer to that day.
Even stories that do have supposed happy endings are really more bittersweet than anything. I understand that people have a desire to write stories that are true to life. As a writer, I know that my own experiences are where I draw the vast majority of my inspiration from. But I also know that I read stories to get away from the real world far more often than I do it to try and emulate it. I'm not interested in reading stories that I could believe myself being in. I want to read stories in which I wish I was in.
When I was a kid, everyone read fiction. No one ever though to themselves, man, I wish this book were more realistic. Why would we? True stories were boring. They didn't tickle our brains the way these imaginative fantasies could. We would run around the playgrounds, pretending we were characters in books we had read or shows we had seen. No one ever wanted to be the villain, so we made up our own in our heads, and they were huge, and powerful, greater than anything the real world could contain. And it was fantastic.
As I grew older, I saw the people around me start to stray away from these things, start to focus more on what they could see and touch, and I didn't understand. Nothing about what we had done had become any less fun. It had just become too "childish."
So I learned to contain it. I didn't want to, but I didn't have much choice. Playing pretend wasn't a thing I was "allowed" to do anymore. So I found new ways to get it out. And I wrote. It was something I had done before, but not with the new vigor that came from this lack of fun in my daily life. I poured the joy from the games I had played into my writing. And no one would ever want to play as the guy who lost, so why would I write that character? We wanted to beat the bad guy. We wanted to be victorious. And just before I became "too old" to play my games, we started to realize that we wanted to get the girl. So I decided that was what I wanted to write.
In my adult life, limited though it may be, most people I have talked to say that they remember these days. And a lot of them miss them. The miss the simpler days, when we could play and have fun and not feel restricted by responsibilities. That's what I want to tap into. I want my stories to make readers happy. I want my readers to imagine themselves in the position of my characters, and think about how fun and cool it would be. There's downsides, sure. There always are. Even as kids we knew that you had to lose against the bad guy at least once before you could beat them in the end. It wasn't as fun if it was too easy.
I live in a world of a lot of sadness and darkness. I see and hear about people on a near daily basis who have problems, who are closer to death than I can imagine, who have lost hope. I don't like that world. So I choose to make my own. I choose to make worlds in which hope is the leading factor. Where happiness is attainable. I feel like people have forgotten that that's an option, and I want to remind them of that. I want people to read my writings and smile.
So call me cliche all you want. But if at any point you read something that I wrote, and it makes you even the tiniest bit happy, then I win.
And I think that's bullshit. I think the world needs happy stories. There's too much sadness, too much anger, and too much fear. Those stories need to be told too, surely, but not to the frequency that they have been as of late. I fear for the day a story having a happy ending is considered the bold choice. And lately it seems like we're getting closer and closer to that day.
Even stories that do have supposed happy endings are really more bittersweet than anything. I understand that people have a desire to write stories that are true to life. As a writer, I know that my own experiences are where I draw the vast majority of my inspiration from. But I also know that I read stories to get away from the real world far more often than I do it to try and emulate it. I'm not interested in reading stories that I could believe myself being in. I want to read stories in which I wish I was in.
When I was a kid, everyone read fiction. No one ever though to themselves, man, I wish this book were more realistic. Why would we? True stories were boring. They didn't tickle our brains the way these imaginative fantasies could. We would run around the playgrounds, pretending we were characters in books we had read or shows we had seen. No one ever wanted to be the villain, so we made up our own in our heads, and they were huge, and powerful, greater than anything the real world could contain. And it was fantastic.
As I grew older, I saw the people around me start to stray away from these things, start to focus more on what they could see and touch, and I didn't understand. Nothing about what we had done had become any less fun. It had just become too "childish."
So I learned to contain it. I didn't want to, but I didn't have much choice. Playing pretend wasn't a thing I was "allowed" to do anymore. So I found new ways to get it out. And I wrote. It was something I had done before, but not with the new vigor that came from this lack of fun in my daily life. I poured the joy from the games I had played into my writing. And no one would ever want to play as the guy who lost, so why would I write that character? We wanted to beat the bad guy. We wanted to be victorious. And just before I became "too old" to play my games, we started to realize that we wanted to get the girl. So I decided that was what I wanted to write.
In my adult life, limited though it may be, most people I have talked to say that they remember these days. And a lot of them miss them. The miss the simpler days, when we could play and have fun and not feel restricted by responsibilities. That's what I want to tap into. I want my stories to make readers happy. I want my readers to imagine themselves in the position of my characters, and think about how fun and cool it would be. There's downsides, sure. There always are. Even as kids we knew that you had to lose against the bad guy at least once before you could beat them in the end. It wasn't as fun if it was too easy.
I live in a world of a lot of sadness and darkness. I see and hear about people on a near daily basis who have problems, who are closer to death than I can imagine, who have lost hope. I don't like that world. So I choose to make my own. I choose to make worlds in which hope is the leading factor. Where happiness is attainable. I feel like people have forgotten that that's an option, and I want to remind them of that. I want people to read my writings and smile.
So call me cliche all you want. But if at any point you read something that I wrote, and it makes you even the tiniest bit happy, then I win.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
The long game
I've been spending a lot of time thinking about my future. There's a lot of reasons for that, but suffice to say that I'm reaching a point where I find that it's something that I really have to sit down and do. This isn't normally a thing that I would write about, much less post publicly, but I sit here looking at this blank page, at this blog in general, and I think that it's something relevant to talk about.
It seems like a lot of the things that I'm interested in, that I want to do, are things that I have to play the long game for. Things that you can't just go out and do and expect to be successful. I understand that that's just a thing in life, that you really can't pick any one thing and expect to immediately be rolling in the dough for it. But I would think that most things you can at least expect some payback for right off the bat. But the things that I'm interested in pretty much start off at zero.
The most obvious of these is my writing. It's my biggest passion, the thing that makes me happiest, and it is entirely dependent upon luck. Not only do you have to put a significant amount of time into writing, and editing, and more writing, and more editing, even once it's finally complete and out on the market you can't be sure that you'll get anything from back from it. Somehow you have to get the word about it to spread, and even then it has to be something people want to read. And honestly, I don't really know how to do that.
I don't really understand the long game. Not objectively speaking, but personally. I can't wrap my head around doing something over and over, trying to make it better, until it actually becomes successful. If things don't happen for me quickly, I find it difficult to continue doing them. It's not that I don't want to. I just have trouble comprehending it. It's incredibly disconcerting when you put tons of effort into something, and you see little in return. To be honest, this blog is a good example of that.
I hear people say this all the time, so I'm not breaking any new grounds here saying this. But it's something that I'm becoming increasingly more aware of as I go. You have to do something because you enjoy it. You have to push on it, improve it, and enjoy every piece of it. And eventually you enjoy it so much, that people can't help but look upon it and enjoy it too.
But god damn if it isn't hard. I don't know what I would do if, someday, it didn't pay off. Writing is truly my passion. I'm not exaggerating when I say that my writing is my life. It truly feels like I'm pouring my heart and soul into my stories. I understand that it may not look like it at times, and I have a long way to go. But this is what I want, and somehow I have to get there. I'm trying to learn the long game. I just don't know what all the steps are yet.
It seems like a lot of the things that I'm interested in, that I want to do, are things that I have to play the long game for. Things that you can't just go out and do and expect to be successful. I understand that that's just a thing in life, that you really can't pick any one thing and expect to immediately be rolling in the dough for it. But I would think that most things you can at least expect some payback for right off the bat. But the things that I'm interested in pretty much start off at zero.
The most obvious of these is my writing. It's my biggest passion, the thing that makes me happiest, and it is entirely dependent upon luck. Not only do you have to put a significant amount of time into writing, and editing, and more writing, and more editing, even once it's finally complete and out on the market you can't be sure that you'll get anything from back from it. Somehow you have to get the word about it to spread, and even then it has to be something people want to read. And honestly, I don't really know how to do that.
I don't really understand the long game. Not objectively speaking, but personally. I can't wrap my head around doing something over and over, trying to make it better, until it actually becomes successful. If things don't happen for me quickly, I find it difficult to continue doing them. It's not that I don't want to. I just have trouble comprehending it. It's incredibly disconcerting when you put tons of effort into something, and you see little in return. To be honest, this blog is a good example of that.
I hear people say this all the time, so I'm not breaking any new grounds here saying this. But it's something that I'm becoming increasingly more aware of as I go. You have to do something because you enjoy it. You have to push on it, improve it, and enjoy every piece of it. And eventually you enjoy it so much, that people can't help but look upon it and enjoy it too.
But god damn if it isn't hard. I don't know what I would do if, someday, it didn't pay off. Writing is truly my passion. I'm not exaggerating when I say that my writing is my life. It truly feels like I'm pouring my heart and soul into my stories. I understand that it may not look like it at times, and I have a long way to go. But this is what I want, and somehow I have to get there. I'm trying to learn the long game. I just don't know what all the steps are yet.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Relax
Reanna sat on the pier, letting her legs dangle over the water as she watched the sunset. It had been a long day. Well, a long week, really. A long week that had been part of a long month. Well... It had all been long. But the point was, it seemed to finally be coming to an end. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Reanna felt that she could just lay back and relax. And she planned on doing just that.
As the sun slipped past the horizon and the sky grew dark, Reanna laid back onto the pier and looked at the sky. Before long, stars slowly began to appear, and she smiled to herself as she tried to recognize the constellations. She remembered trying to learn them when she was a child, but that was a long time ago. Some of the shapes seemed vaguely familiar, and she still had some of the names floating around in her head, but she had trouble making the connections between them.
Eventually it started to get too cold for Reanna to be laying on a beach pier, so she got up and started walking. She didn't particularly have a destination in mind. She was just walking. Going along her way, seeing if she could find a place to be next. In the distance she could see the lights of town turning on as it got darker, and she could hear the buzz of the night life as it came out.
Several people passed her by, but she paid them no mind, and they her. Each person had their own plans, their own destinations. And Reanna, not knowing what her own were, found little need to talk with them or accompany them. Besides. She had spent a lot of her life around other people, and she had learned with time that finding those she appreciated, and who appreciated her, was a small chance. She found it easier to let things happen naturally. If there was someone out there who needed her, or who she needed, they would find her. Somehow they always had.
As she found herself entering the town, she noticed a small store off the beaten path. It seemed to call to her, and she approached it. Inside was a collection of antiques and toys that reminded her of her childhood. She smiled as she looked through them, reliving memories of simpler times, before the rush of life had come to her. The price tags on them were reasonable, but if she bought each thing that caught her eye, that reminded her of the past, she knew she would soon be broke.
Somewhat reluctantly, she decided that now was not the time to be making these purchases. But as she left, she looked back and memorized the store. It's name, it's location, and it's contents. Someday she would come back to it. Deep down, she could feel that she must. It held something special for her, and she would need to take that specialness home with her. So she would be back. Sooner or later, she'd make it back.
As the sun slipped past the horizon and the sky grew dark, Reanna laid back onto the pier and looked at the sky. Before long, stars slowly began to appear, and she smiled to herself as she tried to recognize the constellations. She remembered trying to learn them when she was a child, but that was a long time ago. Some of the shapes seemed vaguely familiar, and she still had some of the names floating around in her head, but she had trouble making the connections between them.
Eventually it started to get too cold for Reanna to be laying on a beach pier, so she got up and started walking. She didn't particularly have a destination in mind. She was just walking. Going along her way, seeing if she could find a place to be next. In the distance she could see the lights of town turning on as it got darker, and she could hear the buzz of the night life as it came out.
Several people passed her by, but she paid them no mind, and they her. Each person had their own plans, their own destinations. And Reanna, not knowing what her own were, found little need to talk with them or accompany them. Besides. She had spent a lot of her life around other people, and she had learned with time that finding those she appreciated, and who appreciated her, was a small chance. She found it easier to let things happen naturally. If there was someone out there who needed her, or who she needed, they would find her. Somehow they always had.
As she found herself entering the town, she noticed a small store off the beaten path. It seemed to call to her, and she approached it. Inside was a collection of antiques and toys that reminded her of her childhood. She smiled as she looked through them, reliving memories of simpler times, before the rush of life had come to her. The price tags on them were reasonable, but if she bought each thing that caught her eye, that reminded her of the past, she knew she would soon be broke.
Somewhat reluctantly, she decided that now was not the time to be making these purchases. But as she left, she looked back and memorized the store. It's name, it's location, and it's contents. Someday she would come back to it. Deep down, she could feel that she must. It held something special for her, and she would need to take that specialness home with her. So she would be back. Sooner or later, she'd make it back.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Training
"Why do you train so much every day? It's not like you're getting stronger. You've gotten as strong as you're gonna get, at least as long as you keep doing the same exercises everyday. So what's the point?"
Dylan slowly lowered himself down from the handstand that he had been holding for about two minutes. His daily training was an hour long, and consisted of a number of high intensity strength drills interspersed with held endurance positions. "Because I'm not interested in getting stronger," he explained to his younger sister. "I've already become as strong as I want to be. But I want to make sure that I don't lose that strength, so I keep working everyday."
"But doesn't it get boring doing the same thing day after day? It looks boring. I don't know how you had the patience to get where you are, much less to try and maintain it."
Dylan chuckled to himself as he threw his rope over the tree branch. He tied the hanging ends together, and then rotated the rope around the branch, so that the knot was above the wood, rather than under his hands. "It may seem boring to you," he explained, repeating the process with a second rope, "but I enjoy it. It's good for me, and it gives me time to think."
"What do you think about, though? You seem engrossed in your exercises most of the time, I find it hard to believe that you're thinking about something. Except maybe for what you're doing. But that seems like it would be boring to think about."
Dylan smiled and tested his rope loops. He knew they would hold him, as they always did, but he made it a habit to test them anyway. He didn't want to be taken by surprise. He positioned himself between the ropes and slipped his hands into the loops, pushing down on them to lift his feet off of the ground. Slowly he lifted his legs in front of him until they were parallel to the ground. And like with his handstand, he held it. "I think about a lot of things," he answered. "I think about what I want to do. Where I want to go. The work I have to do. What I'll get to do once I finish my work."
"Those things sound boring."
"Sometimes they are, yeah. But sometimes I think about fantastical things. I'll think about how I can use my training to save the world, or how I could challenge a dragon."
His sister giggled at that. "Those things won't happen, though. That's just in your head."
"I know it is. But does that ever stop you from thinking about those things?"
"No."
"And do you think about stuff like that to help you get through boring things?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, there you go."
"Hey brother?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think I could ever be as strong as you are."
Dylan chuckled and let himself down. "Maybe. But you'd have to train like I do."
"There's no other way?"
"Not really, no."
"Darn."
Dylan slowly lowered himself down from the handstand that he had been holding for about two minutes. His daily training was an hour long, and consisted of a number of high intensity strength drills interspersed with held endurance positions. "Because I'm not interested in getting stronger," he explained to his younger sister. "I've already become as strong as I want to be. But I want to make sure that I don't lose that strength, so I keep working everyday."
"But doesn't it get boring doing the same thing day after day? It looks boring. I don't know how you had the patience to get where you are, much less to try and maintain it."
Dylan chuckled to himself as he threw his rope over the tree branch. He tied the hanging ends together, and then rotated the rope around the branch, so that the knot was above the wood, rather than under his hands. "It may seem boring to you," he explained, repeating the process with a second rope, "but I enjoy it. It's good for me, and it gives me time to think."
"What do you think about, though? You seem engrossed in your exercises most of the time, I find it hard to believe that you're thinking about something. Except maybe for what you're doing. But that seems like it would be boring to think about."
Dylan smiled and tested his rope loops. He knew they would hold him, as they always did, but he made it a habit to test them anyway. He didn't want to be taken by surprise. He positioned himself between the ropes and slipped his hands into the loops, pushing down on them to lift his feet off of the ground. Slowly he lifted his legs in front of him until they were parallel to the ground. And like with his handstand, he held it. "I think about a lot of things," he answered. "I think about what I want to do. Where I want to go. The work I have to do. What I'll get to do once I finish my work."
"Those things sound boring."
"Sometimes they are, yeah. But sometimes I think about fantastical things. I'll think about how I can use my training to save the world, or how I could challenge a dragon."
His sister giggled at that. "Those things won't happen, though. That's just in your head."
"I know it is. But does that ever stop you from thinking about those things?"
"No."
"And do you think about stuff like that to help you get through boring things?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, there you go."
"Hey brother?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think I could ever be as strong as you are."
Dylan chuckled and let himself down. "Maybe. But you'd have to train like I do."
"There's no other way?"
"Not really, no."
"Darn."
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Fork in the road
I came across a fork in the road, given two options upon where to go with my life, and found it difficult to choose. To my left lay the road of familiarity. When I looked upon it, I knew precisely what to expect. There were no secrets, no hidden plans. But as I looked upon it, I felt dread in my heart. Knowing the path upon which it would lead me, I saw little to look forward to. I could not see myself making great strides in my life, or achieving dreams which I had held. But I knew that I would get by. I knew that that path would give me the tools to be able to live to some extent. But what was life if one did not take chances?
To my right lay the road of uncertainty. It was shrouded in darkness, and spread far and wide. Far in the distance on the road I could see a light, and from it I felt warmth. I could feel greatness calling out to me, but as I tried to pinpoint where exactly it came from, I found that I could not. I could feel that besides the light there were many darkness, cold and unwelcoming. A single wrong turn could potentially lead to my demise. And yet, I found the light so powerful, so calling. I could not deny that I wanted to reach it.
I turned around to see where I had come from, and along came another man, who looked much like me, but older, wiser. In his eyes I could see a distance which I had yet to experience. "Who are you?" I asked this man.
"I believe you should know better than I," the man replied.
"If you are who I think you are, I do not see how I could know who you are better than you. For if you are who I think, that would make you me, but from far in the future. Far past this fork, having already made your decision. Yet, when I look at you, I cannot fathom which road you may have taken."
"You are right in that I am you. But do not let appearances fool you. Just because I come from ahead, does not make me wiser than you. We are one in the same, my old friend. I often look back upon my decisions, as will you, and contemplate what I might have become had I made the other choice. You will ask me for advice, but I can not give it to you. Only you can decide, my child. For only you can decide what man I am."
I looked away from this man and back once more at the roads before me. "I am scared," I mused aloud. "I feel as though whichever road I choose, I will fail."
"You will not fail," my future self told me. "Failure is but a concept which we use to scare ourselves away from what we need. You do not fail. You learn. And you grow. And you will continue to be scared, and you will look back upon your decisions, and you will become me. And only then will you truly understand how powerful we are, for we made a decision, and as much as it scared us, we moved onward."
I did not fully understand his words at the time, but they resonated with me. Somewhere, deep inside, I knew that he was right, and that it was time. Almost as if on their own, my feet began to move forward, toward the path I knew that I must take.
And I was scared.
And I felt weak.
But I moved forward.
To my right lay the road of uncertainty. It was shrouded in darkness, and spread far and wide. Far in the distance on the road I could see a light, and from it I felt warmth. I could feel greatness calling out to me, but as I tried to pinpoint where exactly it came from, I found that I could not. I could feel that besides the light there were many darkness, cold and unwelcoming. A single wrong turn could potentially lead to my demise. And yet, I found the light so powerful, so calling. I could not deny that I wanted to reach it.
I turned around to see where I had come from, and along came another man, who looked much like me, but older, wiser. In his eyes I could see a distance which I had yet to experience. "Who are you?" I asked this man.
"I believe you should know better than I," the man replied.
"If you are who I think you are, I do not see how I could know who you are better than you. For if you are who I think, that would make you me, but from far in the future. Far past this fork, having already made your decision. Yet, when I look at you, I cannot fathom which road you may have taken."
"You are right in that I am you. But do not let appearances fool you. Just because I come from ahead, does not make me wiser than you. We are one in the same, my old friend. I often look back upon my decisions, as will you, and contemplate what I might have become had I made the other choice. You will ask me for advice, but I can not give it to you. Only you can decide, my child. For only you can decide what man I am."
I looked away from this man and back once more at the roads before me. "I am scared," I mused aloud. "I feel as though whichever road I choose, I will fail."
"You will not fail," my future self told me. "Failure is but a concept which we use to scare ourselves away from what we need. You do not fail. You learn. And you grow. And you will continue to be scared, and you will look back upon your decisions, and you will become me. And only then will you truly understand how powerful we are, for we made a decision, and as much as it scared us, we moved onward."
I did not fully understand his words at the time, but they resonated with me. Somewhere, deep inside, I knew that he was right, and that it was time. Almost as if on their own, my feet began to move forward, toward the path I knew that I must take.
And I was scared.
And I felt weak.
But I moved forward.
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