I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. No, I’ve told my classmates before. I’m gonna be a scientist. I’m gonna win the Nobel Prize. No, I’ve told my parents before. I’m gonna be a doctor. An epidemiologist maybe. I don’t really know what I want to do. I’m just going to be famous. Or I’m just gonna live a less than average life then become famous when I die. Whatever I do, I know deep, deep down that I know that I think that I can’t help but think that I’m someone.

Yesterday, my teacher told us all a story. My science teacher. I love science. I love my science teacher. What did she say, though? Well, she once knew a guy who wanted to write a book and become famous off of it. Then, he died of old age. He never wrote a book. I make it sound all so cynical the way I say it, but it’s how the story calls itself to my memory. I don’t know why I’m the way I am; I just am. I guess everyone else says that then and now too. Now and then.

Today is a beautiful day. I look at the flowers, and they keep growing upward. They’re not physically expanding in some sort of magical Wonderland way… but, in my head, I imagine they are growing a small bit each instant. That’s how beautiful today is. It’s overbearing, like the sun’s rays are pulling the world up into the sky, and maybe I’d like to think I’m growing with those flowers a little.

Mom’s garden is a nice place to hang out. I’m allergic to the sun, though. Probably because it feels like it’s gonna rip my face out at any moment and teleport me to another dimension where I can fight aliens. Meh, as if. I’m not afraid of the sun. I watch the little kids in the neighborhood play from my patio. The only sort of battles I ever fight are the boring kind… like deciding to be a doctor or a lawyer.

Somehow, it all feels so average. My average vision can’t read the back of the newspaper my neighbor is holding across the street. My average knowledge makes me wonder why he’s reading a newspaper in the 21st century. My average deduction concludes that he’s just used to newspapers because he is–my average ethical sense refuses to let me say it–”old.” I am surrounded by average people, and if I were even a great visionary, I might even say, I see only an average future of greatness.

If greatness is just something that happens and passes by, it’s just all part of the averageness of it all, right? Whatever. I don’t know. Is this what they call ambition? I personally prefer to say dissatisfaction… it’s sounds a little less… average.

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 7th, 2009 at 5:27 pm and is filed under Entertaining Lies. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.