You Could Easily Be The President, Or Work At Staples

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Welcome to kindergarten. You are special and you are a snowflake and everything is possible.

You can score the winning goal in the World Cup Final just by believing in yourself, in fact, you will. You can — no, you motherfucking will — be the President if you just decide you want to. You could also be the Captain of the Universe with a 15-inch dick jumping over rainbows on a unicorn. Whatever. You are a powder keg of potential and anything is possible, don’t forget that. Dream big and think different. Also, go to college.

Welcome to Enterprise Staffing Solutions. Your resume says you have a BA; well that’s very nice, would you like a cookie. Have you considered taking off the training wheels and getting your MBA.

Now welcome to therapy. You say you feel like you fumbled your destiny. Or you suspect that destiny is actually a very ill-defined word and perhaps that this was your destiny all along: to wear pleated khakis, to write large checks each month to First National Bank. To consume and not create. You say you feel like you’re on a rigid track and hitting the same beats as the rest of the masses.

And there are the reminders; they don’t make it any easier. You say scrolling Facebook or watching TV breaks your heart a hundred times a day. There is greatness out there, there are people who wake up and do what they love. Gravity does not apply to them, due to luck, perseverance, or something. They’ve unchained themselves from reality. You say you wish you had known earlier on that an uncommon type of hustle was required to get to where they are. You know now that “you are never going to make it” is a far more powerful motivator than “you obviously will.” You say you don’t want to be another someone. Just taking up space and waiting to die.

So you decide not to wait.

Welcome to solitude. You can’t count the hours you’ve spent here, to subtract them from the 10,000 you’re supposed to put in. But you’ve been here for years, torturing yourself and bleeding into this Word document. It hurts — of course it does. That’s why everyone else turns around.

It only becomes worth it when you re-read a sentence you wrote earlier and it makes your heart clench. Muscles relax that you didn’t realize you were tensing. Now this one, this one is not horrible.

It doesn’t happen often, you can’t set a watch to it. But it does happen. Well, anyway, good for you — but it’s just a sentence, it’s not greatness, it’s nothing like throwing a touchdown pass.

Or is it.

Welcome to addiction. This feels like magic, and it’s all you want to do. Can you do it again, and can you get better. You keep going. Existence is nothing but a slow suffocation if you’re not trying.

There’s a thought you have, and you try to stop it from surfacing, because you think too much hope will sap your hunger. But sometimes you give in. You pick up the pen and think that maybe, this thing that you’re doing, it could be your salvation.

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