Cut if necessary, add if needed. I have 30 more words to meet the word limits. Enjoy ^^
I wrote an essay. It was the perfect one. It represented everything I had been thinking since forever ago. I could recall right before I wrote it, I had a fight with somebody about something, and by the time I finished writing, I was not angry anymore. I supposed only during emotional disarray that we can speak "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." But no! It was almost impossible for the rest of the world to understand. To them, I was just speaking Klingon; Coon wrote it, nerds spoke it, and the commonness thought it was just silly. I could blame my halfway English. I could blame egocentrism. I could blame just about anything and everything for the essay's disorientation, but I could not change the fact that nobody but me understands the essay is as smooth as it can be.
It is just another challenge I posed to the world. Another thought that goes against everything society is about. Another piece of writing that is waiting to be forgotten and buried so deep that it will just disappear the moment my hard drive is no more. But I love it. It makes perfect sense to me. It reminds me that everyone has a role in society, in which my life is just following an inevitable circular motion of life, from birth to death and oblivion. It is my fortune teller. It describes the path that I will take and end. Chances are I will have a house, a family, a loving wife who will give me many children. I will go to work from seven to five and at night, I will have my sons and daughters in my arm, telling them that everything I do I do it for them. Soon enough, I will become a version of my own essay - gone. Do not get me wrong! I want that life. It is much better than what I am having right now. I have no house, no job, no stability, and being a rationalist, I cannot feed on faith in my own future. The essay reminds me that I have a lot to work for.
But if the fortune teller is right, that a median life is everything I will have, and then the piece is only half-fulfilled. My illusion does not stop at a pretty life, in which I am a strict parent who expects his children to have everything he did not, and forces his will on a son who is not ready. My vision expands far beyond my family, my friends, and strangers on the street. It touches the other side of the universe. In my dream, a kid in Africa was eating his food and smiling at me, constructions was rising in the suburb, and New York had brought the whole city under the ground, leaving only amusement parks on the green hills and those flourishing mountains beyond. Nothing is farfetched if they are possible. Still, I am just one man, achieving wildest human dreams is just romantic. But I realize that I need to do something. I want to put an effort into making this world a better place, where I will be able to look at my grandchildren in their eyes, teaching them that everyone has a role in society and it is their turn to find their own.
Son, daughter, grandchild, I have none. All I have is about fifteen kilobytes of work that probably nobody will be able to understand. But it is cool. Nobody is supposed to understand because it is the blueprint of my future, and it is fully mapped. What I have to do now is to follow it as closely as I can.
I wrote an essay. It was the perfect one. It represented everything I had been thinking since forever ago. I could recall right before I wrote it, I had a fight with somebody about something, and by the time I finished writing, I was not angry anymore. I supposed only during emotional disarray that we can speak "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." But no! It was almost impossible for the rest of the world to understand. To them, I was just speaking Klingon; Coon wrote it, nerds spoke it, and the commonness thought it was just silly. I could blame my halfway English. I could blame egocentrism. I could blame just about anything and everything for the essay's disorientation, but I could not change the fact that nobody but me understands the essay is as smooth as it can be.
It is just another challenge I posed to the world. Another thought that goes against everything society is about. Another piece of writing that is waiting to be forgotten and buried so deep that it will just disappear the moment my hard drive is no more. But I love it. It makes perfect sense to me. It reminds me that everyone has a role in society, in which my life is just following an inevitable circular motion of life, from birth to death and oblivion. It is my fortune teller. It describes the path that I will take and end. Chances are I will have a house, a family, a loving wife who will give me many children. I will go to work from seven to five and at night, I will have my sons and daughters in my arm, telling them that everything I do I do it for them. Soon enough, I will become a version of my own essay - gone. Do not get me wrong! I want that life. It is much better than what I am having right now. I have no house, no job, no stability, and being a rationalist, I cannot feed on faith in my own future. The essay reminds me that I have a lot to work for.
But if the fortune teller is right, that a median life is everything I will have, and then the piece is only half-fulfilled. My illusion does not stop at a pretty life, in which I am a strict parent who expects his children to have everything he did not, and forces his will on a son who is not ready. My vision expands far beyond my family, my friends, and strangers on the street. It touches the other side of the universe. In my dream, a kid in Africa was eating his food and smiling at me, constructions was rising in the suburb, and New York had brought the whole city under the ground, leaving only amusement parks on the green hills and those flourishing mountains beyond. Nothing is farfetched if they are possible. Still, I am just one man, achieving wildest human dreams is just romantic. But I realize that I need to do something. I want to put an effort into making this world a better place, where I will be able to look at my grandchildren in their eyes, teaching them that everyone has a role in society and it is their turn to find their own.
Son, daughter, grandchild, I have none. All I have is about fifteen kilobytes of work that probably nobody will be able to understand. But it is cool. Nobody is supposed to understand because it is the blueprint of my future, and it is fully mapped. What I have to do now is to follow it as closely as I can.
