What a hurly burly swirly of emotions of late, waiting to hear the decision on my fate. I've tried to come up with a variety of similes to describe what it feels like to be so powerless and helpless with regard to my entire life's future. In my morbid destructive times I feel like the character in Poe's Pit and the Pendulum (I had my great Poe phase as every melancholy American boy child should). The story's darkness for me is the darkness of ignorance. I imagine the sharp blade swinging through the cosmos and coming closer and closer to brushing my skin unawares, slicing indiscriminately.
Other times, I am nearly giddy with furious excitement and the urge to do, to make, to make some mark upon the world, some indent to let it know I'm here. Somehow I see my freedom bound to my fate, to the print on a page. Do the mail room employees understand the gravity of their task, sorting the decisions of one's entire life direction with distracted ease?
I'm afraid my life is one giant cliche, that I have been manipulated by forces I know not and cannot understand. It seems my fate to be mediocre, to merely be good. Is good good enough, though? If I miraculously found myself excellent, the best, would I love it or hate it? Why can't I establish a sense of worth apart from my achievements, especially as I consider my achievements so modest? Is all this just bourgeois whining, totally inconsequential?
At any rate, here I am, furiously waiting.
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