Talk to me for a few hours straight, and I will guarantee you two things. First: At least one of us will be entertained throughout the entire conversation. Second: I will tell you little, if anything about myself. I have an uncanny ability to extract juicy tidbits from others, yet when it comes to my own stories, secrets, and sins, I remain reticent. I can name on one hand how many people know anything I consider substantive about the real me.
The reason for shutting people out isn't anything sinister, nor is it a ploy to make myself more mysterious. No, the reason is much more boring: I am quite boring. I have not journeyed to many far off exotic lands nor have I accomplished any great deeds. I have produced nothing of artistic, spiritual, or scientific significance yet consume all three in great abundance. All my loves have gone unrequited... all my battles remain unfought. I have been punished with banality for merely living my life.
During my first weeks of college, one of my professors asked if we were living or just existing. I, without a shadow of a doubt, just exist. I am here, however, to throw down the gauntlet for all those who just exist. I have listened to people who have had full lives, and I envy them- oh how I envy them- but despite experiencing more than I, they all started sounding the same. I could no longer stand hearing about how awesome this is and how I should really try that... the mush of what they said had become predictable- boring, even. Maybe it is due to their inability to tell stories, or maybe their stories were not worth telling... but maybe my stories were; I am not saying we are better or worse than those with more lived lives- we are their equals. I have for too long bit my tongue, hesitated because I didn't think my stories were good enough. They are.
I may not know what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel, but every year as far as I can remember, I have had the heat of Las Vegas take my breath away. I may not have accomplished anything, but all the things I have started speak volumes about who I have become. I know a Scorsese from a Spielberg; I have spoken to many Gods on many occasions; I understand a great many things from dinosaurs to black holes. Though none of my love stories panned out, they each have more vibrancy than so many that have- there is nothing more bland than Happily Ever After. And about fights... all I have to say about fights is to beware a pacifist’s scars because they cut deeper than flesh could ever go.
It is true banality is my punishment, but I get to chose whether or not I suffer.
