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I wonder what my destiny is.  When I look out of my green eyes at the world,  my head feels clear,  like I am looking through the portals of a spaceship command center at all I survey. My head feels spacious, my perception crystal clear.  I know, however,  I am not famous,  nor even unusual perhaps.  Yet every being is born of the same breath and sinew of the Creator.  Maybe, then, it is not important to be recognized.

I try so hard to be diligent in all I do. Accomplishment is like a mirage that drives the thirsty man through desert dunes.    It is our emptiness we travel through, pushed on by some need to turn and look back and say, “I have done this or that.”

When death comes, it must be so final.  All the checking account registers,  trophies, details, goods and bads that we fought so hard to better and protect against,  they all come in unimportance, utter nothingness, in an instant—at least from the perspective of that unhappy life traveler whose journey has just come to an end.  For the continuing seed of humanity,  that is perhaps not true. They will still enjoy the fruits of one’s labor,  if such labor contributed to the pool of long lasting human wealth. (Is it love of one’s fellow that is proper justification for accomplishment,  then?)

For my own part,  it is as if I am waiting for something wonderful to happen to me;  it is as if in my bones I am quite unequivocally certain that fame is my destiny,  if for no other reason than my vision is so utterly clear. Why would God have given me such powerful clarity?

Life is innately frustrating for the goal driven individual.  The reason should be obvious.  There is never enough time to excel properly (i.e.,  to the top of one’s class,  better yet to perfection);  there is never enough time to dig into every mystery and curiosity to the extent one would like.  (Although some people have the appearance of doing so.)  Since I am overdriven by reason, I can never fully justify accomplishing anything,  for I have deduced (long ago) that since everything man made is of a finite life on this planet,  then all I build will fritter away eventually—I am quite certain of that.  The social world is one man patting the other on the back, one ego smoothing another,  the judge of art having just as important a job as the artist—to complete the circle so to speak—and the mutual admiration wheel goes round and round; even those shunned from the privileged inner circle have an important position of being those who are shunned.

So rather than take it all too seriously,  I just let my heart roam freely,  and wherever it falls is O.K. with me.  Accomplishment is something which comes almost as an aside, mostly a product of intelligence,  love of beauty and organization and my diligent and persevering nature.   But I really don’t try all that hard.

I don’t have too much to brag about.  There are millions of other people who have out-accomplished me.  Architects,  scientists,  artists,  even just normal people.  Sometimes it is difficult for me to comprehend just how advanced other people are.

Yet despite all my jabber about how I don’t really care to accomplish,  at one and the same moment,  I am intent on doing something revolutionary,  earth shattering!  For example if I could I would become ruler of the earth!  If I were, I would be a kind and gentle ruler,  but would probably not have much tolerance for those who abused the environment.

But again,  though I feel like I could do all sorts of great things,  the problem that intrudes at all steps of progress is time.  And it would be foolish of me to see in my life anything that would lead me to believe anything monumental will happen as a result of it.  While given enough time,  I could probably rule earth,  but my premise is fantasy and then so is the resulting deduction.

If I look objectively,  I am on a quite normal course, as thing go. One of the small things which sets me apart from most is the amount of traveling I have done and the way I have done it.  Maybe here is my only story.