It’s dark inside the room where I sit with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the only source of light a faint glow emanating from the tip of my cigarette. I’m naked, slumped in a chair with my shoulders hunched forward and squinting into the shadows around me, a half pot of cold coffee sitting next to me on the desk. And it is in this state, strung out and jittery from the caffeine and nicotine, eyes attuned only to the dark, that I sit and make plans to change the world. I’m eight years old, and I’d like to blow your mind.
But that was a long time ago, and now I’m just tired and frustrated at not following through with any of those grand dreams, having failed so far to blow a single mind or make good on even one childhood aspiration. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been planning to change the world, change myself, change my clothes. So far, I haven’t accomplished any of those things, and as I push on into my early 20s and become further removed from my youthful idealism (it peaks at age eight) the more unlikely it seems that I’ll ever be the child prodigy that I’ve always dreamed of becoming. You see, back then I had dreams, ambition, resolve, rock-em sock-em robots™, direction. And now, all these years later I can’t help but wonder-what happened to those fighting robots? I mean, seriously, those things were sweet, I used to love playing with them.
The dreams and ambitions, on the other hand: I know exactly what happened to them. Bit by bit they were crushed under the weight of reality, as opportunities to distance myself from the norm were bypassed in favor of operating within the norm: getting the grades, padding my resume, part time jobs where I die a little each day, kittens.
Now, since I’ve convinced myself that I don’t have the time or energy to actually create something on my own, I passively wait for that one amazing idea that will knock my socks off my ass and make me take notice. That narrative that will resolve itself into an amazing screenplay, that unforgettable melody that will flow out of my fingers through my instrument of choice (kazoo) and make heads bob and feet tap, that one joke so funny that God himself would shit his pants laughing, then go have a bite to eat, then shit his pants again because he would still be laughing.
Of course, this all sounds pretty pompous and self-important, coming from someone who’s chief creative output to date has been a couple of articles, a few mediocre songs written with a few mediocre bands, a screenplay for a short film which will never be realized due to apathy and laziness, and one off-Broadway musical (I’m not even going to count the epic poem I wrote since it completely falls apart after the first 700 pages). But the basic problem is still there: For every real roadblock holding me back there are 10 imagined ones, me pretending to hold myself back from a fight with fate because I know I would just get stomped.
Unfortunately, it’s far easier to meekly assert in retrospect that I could have been something and then hand you your coffee and change than it is to take a chance and risk failing. Of course, without taking that risk the outcome is all but predestined-sacrificing inborn tendencies for copper pennies at an unsatisfying job to support an unsatisfying family. But hey, it works for most people, so who am I to try and be different?
And so here I sit, just like I would all those years ago, leaning forward in my seat, staring at the floor, naked, clutching a cigarette in one hand and a notebook in the other, which I would fill with grand designs if only I had them. Frustrated, I put the notebook away and walk over to the window, staring out at the city around me, wondering how many others are in the same position, trying to find a way to express something on the tip of their tongue that they’ll just swallow instead. As I’m musing about this the conductor announces my station and I step off onto the platform with all the other subway passengers who continue to stare at me as they’ve done for most of the ride. I can’t tell if they’re intrigued because they recognize someone who could reshape the world if only he would apply himself, or if it’s due to the fact that I’m naked, chain smoking and stained with coffee.
One favor though; if you should happen to run into me two or three years from now it would probably be best if you didn’t mention any of the ideas in this article to me. Unless you want to see a Denny’s regional manager cry, that is.
Scott Matthews is a junior in the College and an associate editor of The Georgetown Voice. He really has nothing to say, but he wants to say it all the same.
