DATALOG

121109

As the anniversary of my birth approaches, it is no great surprise that I find myself contemplating the complete lack of a difference I've made in two decades. Twenty is a peculiar age, the age at which you run out of excuses to be useless. I've been trekking back and forth from the university over the past few weeks, desperately trying to find some meaning to my own education and get back to the daily grind. Career counseling has been moderately successful in the sense of providing motivation, sort of like pushing a wheel chair uphill with no wheels.

It's clear to me where my career belongs, it always has been. It should be clear to those reading this where my natural abilities are. I need to write. I've had several profound stories floating around my mind for a few years now, occasionally picking up new ideas like a bubble floats about and occasionally assimilates itself with another bubble, becoming progressively larger. But like bubbles, these ideas become bigger and bigger in my mind until eventually popping, and i'm left trying to scrounge up the residue. Perhaps continuing my education will give me more time to gather these thoughts and let them flourish. How does one translate murky post-apocalyptic dreams in to a three-hundred page diatribe?

I have no doubts about my success. You'd think with 100% confidence, you would have 100% results. I just need wheels for the wheel chair.