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to my dearest howard roark. current song: on the bound by fiona apple. all my life is on me now hail the pages turning and the future's on the bound hell don't know my fury you're all i need and maybe some faith would do me good i don't know what i'm doing don't know should i change my mind i can't decide there's too many variations to consider no thing i do don't do no thing but bring me more to do it's true i do imbue my blue unto myself i make it bitter baby lay your head on my lap one more time tell me you belong to me baby say that it's all gonna be alright i believe that it isn't you're all i need and maybe some faith would do me good i am in love with the hero of an ayn rand novel. it makes sense if you think about it, since i look at my father as though he were henry rearden... my father is a man that cares very deeply about his family. he loves his wife and his children. but he's consumed by his work. not consumed in the archtypal sense of this millenium; he is not a man who toils all for naught under an unrelenting boss, surrounded by a maze of cubical walls, treading on paperwork trying to find his way out. he is a man who is in love with his work. it comes naturally to him - the steel he welds courses though his veins, as though his heart were a furnace that served only to strengthen that steel. he is scoffed upon by men who are not like him, and honored by men who are somewhat like him, but he is smiled upon in competition by men who are exactly like him. there is no beginning and no end goal to his work, there is only progress. he seeks not to finish it, but to continue it until he can't anymore. his wife doesn't understand him in the least. his children are learning to - i am just learning to understand. i see that he does not hide in his work, but that he is immersed in it. his absence was never in anger or fear of his family, but only because of the fire inside him - the fire that consumed him, the drive to do what he loved. and he worked for his own selfish motives, but he toiled at length for us, his children, to provide what he'd never had. he did instill this in me thoughout my childhood - this drive to be in love with your work, and i fell into it head first when i started as an emt. i worked long hours for a couple of reasons; to pay the bills, to put food in the house for my brother and me, to pay off my debts. but i worked as many hours as i could get my hands on because i loved it with all my heart and soul. the love that poured out of me into my work was more than i could give to any other human being, more than i could show my family, more than i could show myself. it defined me as a person. it changed all that i had thought about myself and this world for the short time that i had been alive. it killed my marriage, partly, because i didn't want to come home for all the reasons my father didn't want to come home. i felt alive and full of wonder and tired and sad and joyful and everything all at once. and then i got hurt. but this isn't about me. this is about you, because i know you're going to read this at some point. this is about how i understand you. i really do. i know i beg for more from you for no reason other than to have it, and it's because i have nothing else to pour my love into right now. i beg you to love me even though you give me your love openly. i beg you for your affection though you show it thoroughly. i will not be like this when i have something else. you know it, and i know it. i've become a young dominique francon, my glacial cool on the outside, a burning torch in my heart; a fool innundated in her own passion that has no other vocation. i can only wonder if this will work when we are both in love with something else. you are in love with your job. you are in love with me, but you are consumed by the fire that burns in your heart that drives you to do your work. i know this. and when i find what i can do the way i am that consumes me, i will be aflame with the same sort of passion. will we become the proverbial ships in the night, docking in the same harbor, until the time comes when we are called back out to sea? or will we drift apart, not in search of warmer waters, but because we are called in different directions? i am no longer afraid of the answer to this question. i am merely asking it, because it needs to be asked at this point. all the time we've spent together feels like nothing to me - not that i don't cherish it and hold it dear, but that it's passed ever-so-quickly comparatively. it feels like a drop in the sea in which we are both afloat. and i will continue to cherish it until the time comes when we are called apart, to distant waters - but i shall hear your klaxon in the wind forever. ~*~ immediate yesterday. ~*~ divination. ~*~ get your own guestbook here |
