imagine a child’s brain, full of numbers and letters
and colors and imagination in its best form.
it’s a working engine, taking in the world and
processing it and outputting the ideas and thoughts:
the tree’s green,
the sky’s pretty,
life is good,
now imagine what would happen if it were emptied,
the thoughts draining, the colors fading to monochrome, knowledge
filling the brain and ideas seeping away;
i’d call that high school.
becoming an adult.
i remember in sixth grade, my orchestra took a trip to Disneyland.
i remember the giddiness that overtook me
for weeks, i remember packing for this
3-day trip and blasting the happiest goddamn music
i remember in eleventh grade, i had the same trip,
better even, because I had a lot more friends.
there was no particular feeling in me:
just another event.
just another trip.
just another 3 days.
i don’t know when excitement left me, when
life became a sequence of events, a schedule which
i desperately tried to fill in the hopes of
filling my empty life,
filling the brain that was already filled with
syntax, circuits, morphemes, shakespeare:
filled with education.
fulfilling is a particular word.
if you think about it, it’s kinda like
“full” + “filling,”
i guess i’m pursuing that —
filling what’s already full,
doing whatever i can to make some sort of purpose,
in the stretch of time known as my life.
but what if you interpret fulfilling as
“what’s full is filling.”
“what you have in life is enough”?
i guess i wouldn’t have anything to say to that:
just empty words.