It is granted the eyes play tricks on the mind. How much more so does the man play tricks on the mind? The eyes are passive in what they see. The man is active in what he does. Indeed, it is the man who directs the eyes towards that which deceives. Lament, then, the traps of illusions but lament more the tricks of the greatest illusionists. While the illusion brings other to err, the greatest illusionists brings himself to believe in his own deceptions. For in this life we are performers and all performers have themselves as part of the audiences. See the tragedy of the self-loathing performer who cripples his performance with doubt and the self-loving performer who cripples himself with confidence. The former stutters; the latter feigns with such transparent passion he becomes a caricature rather than a character.
Take the man who consciously tries to serve two masters. Both require his services, yet he can only in truth serve one. What is he to do? He can quit one or trick himself into thinking he serves both. Given enough time, the man will see himself split where there is only one. In the hall of mirrors that is his mind, he will notice nothing unusual.
Picture his situation. The masters always ring their bells for service. Constant is their need. Our ambitious man, excited by the noise, thinks, "I will serve one and then the other." He goes first to his true master, tends to the master's need, and then sets off to serve the other. Alas, in the midst of his jaunt across the stage he hears the bell again behind him. Could it be the master requires still more? He thinks, "This will only take a moment. I know what he wants by now and can complete the task more swiftly than before." He alters his course and reverts back to his true master. Again, our ambitious man tends to the master's need. Thinking himself finished, he takes his leave to answer the other bell. The sound of his footsteps is interrupted again by the jingle of a bell behind him. How can this be? I was on my way to the other, and yet my master wants still more. "I must not leave things unfinished. I will wrap up my loose ends first. Then, I can freely go to the other." He returns, peforms his service, bows, and departs. As this loop repeats and repeats, our illusitionist--if he is worthy of the title--begins to craft the illusion. He trains himself in mental slight of hand.
He is uneqivocally committed to both masters--he says as much himself. Yet, to the best of the audience's recollection, he only serves the one. Does this not rend his heart? Is the audience not horrified at his hipocracy? Do not some in the audience laugh at our ambitious man's portrayal of the fool? Oh--the disappointment of frustrating the other master is too great and our ambitious man cannot abide it! Rather than tender his resignation with the other, admit that he is but a man and can only serve one at a time, he starts to see himself as over on the other side of the stage. He imagines himself serving the other. At first the audience is confused. Is our man derranged? They watch in disbelief as our man recites mid-route, "Look at me, fool that I am! Here I am in the middle and am headed in the wrong direction. I hear the bell behind me and yet I am walking in the opposite direction. I must have just served the other and got turned around in my return. Yes, I served the other. How else did I wind up here in the middle? Silly man that I am, I must have been daydreaming and become disoriented. I will turn around and answer hat call first, and then go back to the other." Through the confidence of the illusionist, the illusion is created. At first, the audience question's the performer's credulity. Upon unwaivering repetition, they begin to question their own.
By this trick on the mind, our man starts to see himself in to discrete and disparate places successively. He does not need a puff of smoke or a closet to walk in to, but only deceit--and he can travel from one side of the stage to the other in the blink of an eye. Our ambitious man takes the act of departing from his true master as a sign of his service rendered to the other. He takes the ticket he holds to be evidence of his arrival when it only shows his unsubstantiated intention to depart.
As this continues, the illusion develops and thickens. He needs to go less and less towards the other to satisfy his conception of obligation to the other. His ear starts to hear the other bell less and less, thinking it is only the echo of his true master's. The further he actually is from the other, the nearer he becomes in his own mind. For his final trick, he ammends his language and alters the course of his thoughts. Serving the other is incorporated into his identity--"I am a servant to two masters." He tells himself that service to the other is included within the service to his true master--"By helping the one, I help the other." He puffs himself up and the audience--mesmerized by his assertions--believes. "How good I am at juggling!" he crows. "The balls seem to converge in my mind. All I need to do is focus on the one in my hand and the other is kept aloft, as though my will can act apart from my body. I, who tend to both, see only one. Praise be my powers of conventration and focus! I can give myself fully to many and yet be so envoloped as to know only the one at any time." The audience, enraptured and entertain, praises as commanded. They stand and applaud. They yell to one another over the din of the theater, "I don't know how he does it!" Truly, they do not know he does it and neither does he. Precisely because he does not do it does no one know how. But that is of no consequence; everyone is entertained. The trick is complete and the curtain falls upon our ambitious man who has trained himself and convinced his audience to see two where there is only one.
Showing posts with label purpose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label purpose. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Growth: The Literature of A Life
After stirring up the pot, I need to let the liquid settle. As an artist, I want to guide not disorient. Exhale with me, and allow me to return to my easel. I am inspired to paint a different picture of aging.
Picture: Books
The lives of people are like a compilation of short stories. The stories are kept in a book we call the self. Each story consists of spans of time differentiated by a central purpose. As a child, the purposes are often determined by others. These are the stories of innocence and learning. They are the memories of playtime and curiosity. A child increasingly becomes self-aware and thus begins to take up his pen to write his stories for himself. As a child ages, he is free to dissociate from the person he has been and determines his own purpose. At such point, he turns the page and begins the story anew.
If a person reflects upon her self in a general way--upon the things she feels, does, observes, and thinks--she finds recurring reasons for the characteristics of her self (e.g., her vices and virtues). These recurring reasons function like morals to a story, and thus the stories of youth transition into fables of adulthood. The reasons frame the structure of a person's motivation and suggest what a person holds dear. Imagine a woman who is angered when she is treated inconsiderately. Desiring to reap what she sews, she constantly takes the the feelings of others into consideration when making choices that involve them. Her motivation, a mixture of self-interest and empathy, suggests that people are valuable and they warrant influence upon each other's choices. We would expect to find at the close of many of her fables morals such as, "No one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the injury," and "The memory of a good deed lives."
We see that adulthood is complicated by the added layer of morals. The beginning of the adulthood commences with the beginning of self-determination. Independence is the mark of other aspects of growth. A child matures by overcoming immediacy. The muscles in the neck strengthen and rather than being stuck in the position gravity requires the baby hold her own head up to see what she wants. The muscles strengthen in her arms and legs and she goes where she wants by crawling. The muscles strengthen in her back and legs and she goes further by walking. The eyes see greater distances. The mind sees greater distances too. A child begins to want more than meeting physical needs. She wants to be something more than bodily contented because she has gained the ability to be something more. To transcend is the action of maturity.
I started seeing life in this way because of an old man I know. When I told him of this current investigation of mine, he voiced his desire to contribute. Being ever interested in the thoughts of sages, I accepted. On promise of anonymity, he handed the following essay to me. I will leave it to my readers to interpret it as they will, it being more direct than Brandon's contribution.
Story: Dreams
The balls of inertia people are begin to accelerate when we begin to consciously direct our lives towards a goal. When I see a child of the age where goals begin to be relevant, I wonder to myself, "What dream do you contain? What is your idea of perfection?" Nothing on the child's face suggests it. His clothes have nothing certain to offer. Yet, children certainly do have an idea of perfection, no matter how nebulous it is in their minds. It is their home, where they always return to.
There are so many possible ends and the specifics within a given person are telling about them. People do strange things--disingenuous things--when they feel the eyes of others upon them. Children are certainly conscious of being watched and often behave otherwise than they would if alone. Behavior resides in the public domain; dreams reside the private domain. The dreams of children are rarely touched by foreign hands for a child thinks nothing of the judgment of others upon their internal contents. Would a child dream a certain dream because his friends would approve? Would a child dream a certain dream because it is what her parents want? No, for the simple reason that they know--if only in a nascent way--dreams are born secrets. Who could ever discover those buried treasure chests?
I enjoy hypothesizing about the dreams a child contains when I see her: would it be a world without death? Would it be a world where you are well-liked and well-known? Would it be a world where you stand atop the scorched remains of your enemies? Would it be a world where everyone can sense beauty on a daily basis?
I wonder these things as I look at a child's busy eyes. I wonder what he or she would tolerate suffering for sake of his or her sweet little dream becoming real. I think about the ways children will try to bring it off, the ways they will succeed and the ways they will fail--the ways they will be confused as to what counts as success and failure. Will they persist when they are knocked back or when they trip? Will they move off in a different direction? Will they harden from the fire of disenchantment or will they melt from the fire of hope? Will they simply hunch over and sob for the remainder of their lives? Will they begin the process of growing older and start to reconstruct their ideas of perfection based off the blueprints of others' expectations?
These questions arise in my mind with such great consistency because I have come to understand myself by answering them. After many years of living, I see myself as playing out some sort of role that was fixed--fixed freely by my own choice--at the ripe age of thirteen. It has been the role of a dreamer in a lucid dream. I have dreamed up a world, unknowingly begun to live in it, and then through a strange coincidence come to understand my own power (and limitations) within the dreamworld. I have tried my best to make the world as real as possible without changing the essence of the first dream.
Providence has blessed me with a certain sort of stupidity that kept me from dreaming anything too like what happens in the world. I became enamored with a lofty vision. Many of the people I was near to as a child were unhappy. Their displeasure took pride of place in my heart as the most pressing need. In response to my environment, I dreamed of a world without suffering. To clarify, I did not think perfection lied in the cessation of all pain. I never saw anything wrong with scraped knees and paper cuts. The lessons to be gleaned from them were easy enough. What I dreamed of was a world without wanton suffering. I wanted everyone to be without all pain that had no hope of yielding edification. I wanted everyone to be free of the sort of sadness that merely disintegrated--the irrational sort of sickness that brought one to cry without any understanding of why the tears came. I thought perfection was a world free of depression and despair.
As a child, I never thought in such stark terms. The limitations of a youth's mind keep them benignly ignorant. I had only a hunch, an undeveloped notion I was infrequently aware of as being my guiding light. I knew it by the repulsion I felt whenever I encountered the depraved sort of suffering. Whenever confronted by it, my immediate and innocent impulse was to disarm it. (I have had for as long as I can remember a tepid but distinct savior complex. Tepid in that I never thought I would save the world. Distinct in that I thought I could save the people I knew.)
My tactics changed over the years. When I was young, I was more passionate than effective. Some of the time, I would try through words and other times I would try through deeds. I would try in my little child way to make sense of the pain aloud with the other person. Through interviewing, I would try to draw out the venom. I would try to think and talk through the semi-conscious pain, and then think and talk it away. I felt sure that if I could bring it out into the clear light of day, it would evaporate like morning mist.
My mother passed away shortly after I was born. Her sister, Clare, would come to our house on occasion to help us with domestic tasks. One occasion juts out in my memory as exemplary of my lucidity. I remember Clare was doing laundry. She had been sulking around the house before descending to the laundry room. I went to visit her in the basement, and noticed she was crying. At the time, my thinking was wonderfully simple: a person cries for a reason. I asked her what was wrong, and after a lengthy back and forth we concluded that the issue was frustration with her bodily appearance. It was my task to bring the world nearer to my ideal. I explained how inappropriate it was to think of your identity as primarily physical. Then, I criticized those who would devalue a person because of their appearance. I told her I loved her regardless. She smiled. All was well now, was it not? I was a successful psychologist already in sixth grade. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. Clare's sadness would boomerang back.
I became unsure of my healing ability. Some wounds resisted treatment. I went back to the drawing board. Perhaps something that was originally beyond words needed to be treated beyond words. When the thorn in my friend's side immediately appeared more stubborn than I could coax out by my teeth, I would apply my hands. I would put them on a person's shoulder blades and hug them. I would try to warm them, to melt the frost that chilled their insides. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. I learned that dusting a portrait does nothing to fix its broken frame.
Now, I look back on my early projects and understand myself better. I was onto something good with that first dream, but I was not onto the summum bonum. Far is the distance from "onto something" to "being there." A nose for food does not always bring you to the kitchen. Sometimes it takes you to the dumpster. Only later could I decipher that my turn outward was a way to keep me from myself. After the failures piled up--after I was unable to stop the bleeding of those sad individuals I knew--I was left alone in my room. Years later I realized that I was one of those sad individuals and had not given myself time to notice it out of some unconscious determination of self-preservation. It was a worthy dream, but needed alteration. Suffering warrants attention and requires a response, but the attendant may need attention of his own and the respondent may be insufficient for the response. Now, I still dream of a world without suffering but imagine myself in it and do not imagine myself creating it. I still strive to disarm despair, but do so in myself as well as others and avoid relying solely upon myself for success. A savior I am not.
Worth of the dream aside, can you see the explanatory power of these first goals? They are like keys that unlock the journal of the self. People spend the rest of their lives relating to these goals. Maturation is a process of revision upon these first goals that move us forward.
A person is free to abandon his first goal. Some simply forget what they were. Make no mistake, though. Goals are always present. Another goal slips into place as soon as one is jettisoned. Somewhere within a person are his reasons for living with their corollary emotional motivations.
The necessity of necessity in life is as a consistent source of motivation. The individuals who manage to draw upon a consistent source of motivation are those who are placed in the canon of people. They lead lives of integrity, with the sameness of purpose that pleases their audience like alliteration pleases readers. Some lives may be driven by towards ill ends, but we are nevertheless fascinated by their persistence. The singularity of purpose makes them memorable because it is so difficult to achieve. Discouragement comes and one is tempted to revise towards something easier and less lofty.
If a person does not concern himself with their fundamental motivation, then that person consigns himself to being forever a baby. To him I say, "Fine. Your life is your bet and you place it on purposelessness as truth. Good luck to you. But what would your winnings be and what do you jeopardize?"
Picture: Books
The lives of people are like a compilation of short stories. The stories are kept in a book we call the self. Each story consists of spans of time differentiated by a central purpose. As a child, the purposes are often determined by others. These are the stories of innocence and learning. They are the memories of playtime and curiosity. A child increasingly becomes self-aware and thus begins to take up his pen to write his stories for himself. As a child ages, he is free to dissociate from the person he has been and determines his own purpose. At such point, he turns the page and begins the story anew.
If a person reflects upon her self in a general way--upon the things she feels, does, observes, and thinks--she finds recurring reasons for the characteristics of her self (e.g., her vices and virtues). These recurring reasons function like morals to a story, and thus the stories of youth transition into fables of adulthood. The reasons frame the structure of a person's motivation and suggest what a person holds dear. Imagine a woman who is angered when she is treated inconsiderately. Desiring to reap what she sews, she constantly takes the the feelings of others into consideration when making choices that involve them. Her motivation, a mixture of self-interest and empathy, suggests that people are valuable and they warrant influence upon each other's choices. We would expect to find at the close of many of her fables morals such as, "No one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the injury," and "The memory of a good deed lives."
We see that adulthood is complicated by the added layer of morals. The beginning of the adulthood commences with the beginning of self-determination. Independence is the mark of other aspects of growth. A child matures by overcoming immediacy. The muscles in the neck strengthen and rather than being stuck in the position gravity requires the baby hold her own head up to see what she wants. The muscles strengthen in her arms and legs and she goes where she wants by crawling. The muscles strengthen in her back and legs and she goes further by walking. The eyes see greater distances. The mind sees greater distances too. A child begins to want more than meeting physical needs. She wants to be something more than bodily contented because she has gained the ability to be something more. To transcend is the action of maturity.
I started seeing life in this way because of an old man I know. When I told him of this current investigation of mine, he voiced his desire to contribute. Being ever interested in the thoughts of sages, I accepted. On promise of anonymity, he handed the following essay to me. I will leave it to my readers to interpret it as they will, it being more direct than Brandon's contribution.
Story: Dreams
The balls of inertia people are begin to accelerate when we begin to consciously direct our lives towards a goal. When I see a child of the age where goals begin to be relevant, I wonder to myself, "What dream do you contain? What is your idea of perfection?" Nothing on the child's face suggests it. His clothes have nothing certain to offer. Yet, children certainly do have an idea of perfection, no matter how nebulous it is in their minds. It is their home, where they always return to.
There are so many possible ends and the specifics within a given person are telling about them. People do strange things--disingenuous things--when they feel the eyes of others upon them. Children are certainly conscious of being watched and often behave otherwise than they would if alone. Behavior resides in the public domain; dreams reside the private domain. The dreams of children are rarely touched by foreign hands for a child thinks nothing of the judgment of others upon their internal contents. Would a child dream a certain dream because his friends would approve? Would a child dream a certain dream because it is what her parents want? No, for the simple reason that they know--if only in a nascent way--dreams are born secrets. Who could ever discover those buried treasure chests?
I enjoy hypothesizing about the dreams a child contains when I see her: would it be a world without death? Would it be a world where you are well-liked and well-known? Would it be a world where you stand atop the scorched remains of your enemies? Would it be a world where everyone can sense beauty on a daily basis?
I wonder these things as I look at a child's busy eyes. I wonder what he or she would tolerate suffering for sake of his or her sweet little dream becoming real. I think about the ways children will try to bring it off, the ways they will succeed and the ways they will fail--the ways they will be confused as to what counts as success and failure. Will they persist when they are knocked back or when they trip? Will they move off in a different direction? Will they harden from the fire of disenchantment or will they melt from the fire of hope? Will they simply hunch over and sob for the remainder of their lives? Will they begin the process of growing older and start to reconstruct their ideas of perfection based off the blueprints of others' expectations?
These questions arise in my mind with such great consistency because I have come to understand myself by answering them. After many years of living, I see myself as playing out some sort of role that was fixed--fixed freely by my own choice--at the ripe age of thirteen. It has been the role of a dreamer in a lucid dream. I have dreamed up a world, unknowingly begun to live in it, and then through a strange coincidence come to understand my own power (and limitations) within the dreamworld. I have tried my best to make the world as real as possible without changing the essence of the first dream.
Providence has blessed me with a certain sort of stupidity that kept me from dreaming anything too like what happens in the world. I became enamored with a lofty vision. Many of the people I was near to as a child were unhappy. Their displeasure took pride of place in my heart as the most pressing need. In response to my environment, I dreamed of a world without suffering. To clarify, I did not think perfection lied in the cessation of all pain. I never saw anything wrong with scraped knees and paper cuts. The lessons to be gleaned from them were easy enough. What I dreamed of was a world without wanton suffering. I wanted everyone to be without all pain that had no hope of yielding edification. I wanted everyone to be free of the sort of sadness that merely disintegrated--the irrational sort of sickness that brought one to cry without any understanding of why the tears came. I thought perfection was a world free of depression and despair.
As a child, I never thought in such stark terms. The limitations of a youth's mind keep them benignly ignorant. I had only a hunch, an undeveloped notion I was infrequently aware of as being my guiding light. I knew it by the repulsion I felt whenever I encountered the depraved sort of suffering. Whenever confronted by it, my immediate and innocent impulse was to disarm it. (I have had for as long as I can remember a tepid but distinct savior complex. Tepid in that I never thought I would save the world. Distinct in that I thought I could save the people I knew.)
My tactics changed over the years. When I was young, I was more passionate than effective. Some of the time, I would try through words and other times I would try through deeds. I would try in my little child way to make sense of the pain aloud with the other person. Through interviewing, I would try to draw out the venom. I would try to think and talk through the semi-conscious pain, and then think and talk it away. I felt sure that if I could bring it out into the clear light of day, it would evaporate like morning mist.
My mother passed away shortly after I was born. Her sister, Clare, would come to our house on occasion to help us with domestic tasks. One occasion juts out in my memory as exemplary of my lucidity. I remember Clare was doing laundry. She had been sulking around the house before descending to the laundry room. I went to visit her in the basement, and noticed she was crying. At the time, my thinking was wonderfully simple: a person cries for a reason. I asked her what was wrong, and after a lengthy back and forth we concluded that the issue was frustration with her bodily appearance. It was my task to bring the world nearer to my ideal. I explained how inappropriate it was to think of your identity as primarily physical. Then, I criticized those who would devalue a person because of their appearance. I told her I loved her regardless. She smiled. All was well now, was it not? I was a successful psychologist already in sixth grade. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. Clare's sadness would boomerang back.
I became unsure of my healing ability. Some wounds resisted treatment. I went back to the drawing board. Perhaps something that was originally beyond words needed to be treated beyond words. When the thorn in my friend's side immediately appeared more stubborn than I could coax out by my teeth, I would apply my hands. I would put them on a person's shoulder blades and hug them. I would try to warm them, to melt the frost that chilled their insides. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. I learned that dusting a portrait does nothing to fix its broken frame.
Now, I look back on my early projects and understand myself better. I was onto something good with that first dream, but I was not onto the summum bonum. Far is the distance from "onto something" to "being there." A nose for food does not always bring you to the kitchen. Sometimes it takes you to the dumpster. Only later could I decipher that my turn outward was a way to keep me from myself. After the failures piled up--after I was unable to stop the bleeding of those sad individuals I knew--I was left alone in my room. Years later I realized that I was one of those sad individuals and had not given myself time to notice it out of some unconscious determination of self-preservation. It was a worthy dream, but needed alteration. Suffering warrants attention and requires a response, but the attendant may need attention of his own and the respondent may be insufficient for the response. Now, I still dream of a world without suffering but imagine myself in it and do not imagine myself creating it. I still strive to disarm despair, but do so in myself as well as others and avoid relying solely upon myself for success. A savior I am not.
Worth of the dream aside, can you see the explanatory power of these first goals? They are like keys that unlock the journal of the self. People spend the rest of their lives relating to these goals. Maturation is a process of revision upon these first goals that move us forward.
A person is free to abandon his first goal. Some simply forget what they were. Make no mistake, though. Goals are always present. Another goal slips into place as soon as one is jettisoned. Somewhere within a person are his reasons for living with their corollary emotional motivations.
The necessity of necessity in life is as a consistent source of motivation. The individuals who manage to draw upon a consistent source of motivation are those who are placed in the canon of people. They lead lives of integrity, with the sameness of purpose that pleases their audience like alliteration pleases readers. Some lives may be driven by towards ill ends, but we are nevertheless fascinated by their persistence. The singularity of purpose makes them memorable because it is so difficult to achieve. Discouragement comes and one is tempted to revise towards something easier and less lofty.
If a person does not concern himself with their fundamental motivation, then that person consigns himself to being forever a baby. To him I say, "Fine. Your life is your bet and you place it on purposelessness as truth. Good luck to you. But what would your winnings be and what do you jeopardize?"
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Finished
(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)
Timothy Fleming sat on a bed with worn-white sheets questioning what good he was. Everyone wants to give something back, or at least feel like he's altered the world in some fashion. Previously, he thought he was a talented athlete. As a little boy, his tee-ball coach bragged about how fast he was. He beamed with pride at his natural ability. He made his speed a defining characteristic as he aged. He never wanted to rest on his laurels. The fastest runners in the world aren't born or made. They're both. He trained rigorously, beefed up his muscles, and read copiously on the mechanics of running. He took all the best paths in competitions and concentrated as singularly on excelling a possible. Throughout high school, he moved up the rankings in his state.
Timothy never bothered with academics. He did enough to avoid academic probation, but otherwise was disinterested. His only friends were other runners, but he rarely had time to socialize. Even on the long intrastate bus rides, he would close his eyes and run the courses over and over with Wagner playing in his ear buds. The local media covered the state race in his senior year. The sports writers speculated that Timothy Fleming was bound for the Olympics. Careening around the track earlier that day, Timothy knew he was on state record pace. He felt strong. He heard the metal of his spikes dig into the rubberized surface. The strands of blond hair fluttered about his scalp. Everything was as it should be. Crossing the finish line, he completed the race faster than anyone ever had in his home state. Hands slapped his back and his coach embraced him with his sweaty, hairy arms.
A pronounced sense of accomplishment never formed in Timothy's mind. High school competitions are kid's stuff. Legends aren't made in Springfield, Illinois. He wanted to set world-records. He needed to train more. His body had more developing to do. Then he could captivate larger audiences. They'd be in awe of his speed just like his tee-ball coach. Before the other events were over, Timothy was already thinking about how many reps he needed to do on the leg press tomorrow. Ascending the steps to the bus for the long ride home, a teammate called, "Congats, Timmy!" He turned his head around to scan for the face that matched the voice. Distracted, he clipped the edge of the second step. Quickly bringing his leg down to regain his footing, his knee joint gave. All the sinews in his knee tore, shooting pain up the relays to his brain. As Timothy fell forward in a heap, he knew his ACL and MCL were torn and hoped he was dying.
Waiting in an emergency room bed wearing a white gown with sky-blue small polka dots, Timothy wondered. Is it possible for a person to have a talent that goes unfulfilled? Nobody cares about high school records. I have nothing now. No prospects. I'm not good at anything else. What a waste of space!
Timothy Fleming sat on a bed with worn-white sheets questioning what good he was. Everyone wants to give something back, or at least feel like he's altered the world in some fashion. Previously, he thought he was a talented athlete. As a little boy, his tee-ball coach bragged about how fast he was. He beamed with pride at his natural ability. He made his speed a defining characteristic as he aged. He never wanted to rest on his laurels. The fastest runners in the world aren't born or made. They're both. He trained rigorously, beefed up his muscles, and read copiously on the mechanics of running. He took all the best paths in competitions and concentrated as singularly on excelling a possible. Throughout high school, he moved up the rankings in his state.
Timothy never bothered with academics. He did enough to avoid academic probation, but otherwise was disinterested. His only friends were other runners, but he rarely had time to socialize. Even on the long intrastate bus rides, he would close his eyes and run the courses over and over with Wagner playing in his ear buds. The local media covered the state race in his senior year. The sports writers speculated that Timothy Fleming was bound for the Olympics. Careening around the track earlier that day, Timothy knew he was on state record pace. He felt strong. He heard the metal of his spikes dig into the rubberized surface. The strands of blond hair fluttered about his scalp. Everything was as it should be. Crossing the finish line, he completed the race faster than anyone ever had in his home state. Hands slapped his back and his coach embraced him with his sweaty, hairy arms.
A pronounced sense of accomplishment never formed in Timothy's mind. High school competitions are kid's stuff. Legends aren't made in Springfield, Illinois. He wanted to set world-records. He needed to train more. His body had more developing to do. Then he could captivate larger audiences. They'd be in awe of his speed just like his tee-ball coach. Before the other events were over, Timothy was already thinking about how many reps he needed to do on the leg press tomorrow. Ascending the steps to the bus for the long ride home, a teammate called, "Congats, Timmy!" He turned his head around to scan for the face that matched the voice. Distracted, he clipped the edge of the second step. Quickly bringing his leg down to regain his footing, his knee joint gave. All the sinews in his knee tore, shooting pain up the relays to his brain. As Timothy fell forward in a heap, he knew his ACL and MCL were torn and hoped he was dying.
Waiting in an emergency room bed wearing a white gown with sky-blue small polka dots, Timothy wondered. Is it possible for a person to have a talent that goes unfulfilled? Nobody cares about high school records. I have nothing now. No prospects. I'm not good at anything else. What a waste of space!
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