[Movement 6] The (second) Lost Generation
School was when you fool around without having to care about time. No matter how people apply dictatorship on your incompetency, failures, laziness, and so on, you always believe that some miracle would happen on your next birthday (if not, the one after), which shall awake your inner supernatural or extraterrestrial ego and unleash your true power that can wipe away all encountered obstacles and miseries. You think you are a smart kid with Da Vinci’s ability and Hitler’s potential. You believe you’ll do something big, and become famous in history. Yet, when the day comes to prove the true usefulness of your existence, you can only gawk in defeat at your empty portfolio below the three pages of brash and cocky resume.
“We are sorry to announce you that, due to the amount of applicants and the limited place that we offer, your application has been refused.”
Oh, perhaps timeline has jumped to the wrong path. Or those fools really do not know who they are dealing with! You, whose birth was a miracle, a gift sent from the highest dimension. You, who are about to archive the craziest achievements that’ll boost human civilization forward to a level no one had ever known — and beyond. How on Earth can you get rejected, while your fellow classmates get in everywhere they want?
Suddenly, the perspective that someday the world will bow before your feet and gape in awe at the awesomeness of your awesomely awesome awesomeness fades into impossibility. Maybe your hidden identity and inherited fate are too complex to be understood by the ordinary human mind. In some universe, some timeline, you must be recognized.
Lies. Your past was a delusion. Your future is a pit of endless darkness. Too late it is to realize that you have waisted your time in taking detours. Why, if you kept doing drawing, you’ll certainly become a master drawer. Unfortunately, no matter how your inner voice nagged you that you should practice drawing, you eyes kept looking at the successes in science and engineering. Is it your fault though? You’ve been told to enlarge the border of your knowledge to increase your field of professionalism. You’ve been offered to learn aspect in the universe that will have no relation whatsoever with the rest of your life. It is this curiosity, this so easily manipulatable essence in you that caused you to take detours, and to spend more time on unnecessary details. You’ve known since the beginning of your existence that you inherit unique and rare artistic talents, but used all your memory space in storing unrelated knowledge. Wise choice, though, your parents would say; with your easiness with numbers, logical operations and inanimate objects, which are sure to get you a decent job. Actuary, statistician, programmer, calculator, anything is better than the stereotypical homeless artist begging for money in the metro station. So into the jaw of the abstract science you were thrown. And out poops an intelligently handicap with 35.3% theoretical logic, 13.7% technical logic, 40.2% natural talent in art and crafts, 5.6% common sense in aesthetics, 5.8% fascination in philosophy, creative writing, blogging and drawer mimicking, and -0.5% social skills. Oh, the beauty of American education — excreting fresh and optimistic students with no base of what they should be expecting on Earth — and providing them with so much freedom and choice that all lead to the same toilet flusher. The complexity of the question “where to?” is comparable to the semi-philosophical debate on whether a tomato is a vegetable or a fruit.
“The responsibility-repulsion disease,” as said one of your favorite contender one day, during an insightful discussion at Burger King, “is what I call the common tendency of people to deny reconsidering their actions and jump directly to the conclusion that the cause of a particular problem is non-self-caused. In other words, it’s to say ‘It’s not my fault! It’s his/hers/theirs.’”
In other words, he’s saying it’s your fault.
This is when my childhood got ruined. Don’t get the wrong idea, I didn’t get abducted by aliens or anything (though it would raise my self-appreciation and my life may be more self-glorifying — in a more dramatic way.) The truth is, I meant, NOTHING happened. I guess like the typical kid intoxicated to modern fictions, I once thought that maybe I had special properties, given the intelligence and stunning feature I have, of course. Maybe something would happen and awaken they secret power that was always hidden from me. But once I started college, a habitat of creatures having the same expectations and delusion that I have, it is just so easy realize that I’m just an ordinary kid like the rest of the population. Just think about it, how unusual it is to see oneself fitting in so well with the rest of the world such that no body can be bothered or affected by my presence.
Is attention my ultimate target? Not really. Well, why not? I suppose that the claim about introvert needs attention is true. It is delirious to read (or to watch on YouTube videos) about those legendary figures with their awesome brain power and contagious passions, and those historical triumph and the magnificence of nature (I swear I would let out my cry at the scene of the ape that took the first step in the human evolution BBC documentary if I watched it at home rather than in a public library). It nourishes my imagination, pressurize my blood vessels, tire off my old skin cloak, wash it to the last bits of stain and drape it back onto my flesh making me a newer and smarter person. On the outside that may seems true… But dear Lord of Kepler-22b, if I could choose again, I would do anything to get into engineering and be the artist-scientist that I longed for multiple lifetimes. It makes me feel humble and powerless when I picture my future as an exhausted monotonic labourer, rambling downtown’s streets, day after day, week after week, sustaining my life with coffee, or maybe my future is limited to a seat in front of a computer screen, a bird-nest-shaped hair, smelly beggar-styled cloths and a big long beard tangled with cheese and pepperoni (the sad part is I can’t even grow a beard even if I wanted to). And there’s no limit for worst possibilities. I’ve been quite concerned about people who failed their carrier and suddenly end up scavenging for food in dumpsters and sleeping on the cold pavement. Those people who may have been once mad kids, like me, believing in aliens and super power, had their own bubble where they put themselves as admired heroes and kings, had their own skills and expertise in things that are unfortunately not as well demanded as some others on the job market. But why God gives us wings if we cannot own the sky? Nonetheless, isn’t the sense of longing that allow us to find meaning in each day of our life? But in the end, either we accomplished our desires or not, none of them matters anymore once we are dead.
But here’s what I would say to myself if I were born as a twin. HLAAH HLAAH HLAAH ~~~ Don’t speak like an old man who thinks he knows everything!