Joined 8 years ago from Toowoomba, Australia
I think in many ways it is a difficult task to talk about one's self. Factors such as ego and input from others are great indicators of how well you know yourself, or at very least perceive yourself in the realm of disambiguation.
In lieu of such things, I am forced to rely on a certain sense of self awareness that I foster. I do this most prominently because I like many others, I am sure, feel the desire to become more than I am. Without the will to probe my failings I cannot hope to be of greater worth or prestige.
In this I hope that, when I am old and past the hormonal flourish of youth, I might have gained equality and balance, in life and within myself.
Amongst my failings there are inevitably a few celebratory conditions that I may be noted for when I am mature and equipped to fulfill my dreams and hopes for this life.
Though I stumble and fall, though I may be called a failure or otherwise, these are a few treasured gems that sparkle in my eyes.
In my youth I was never one to adventure or aspire to grandeur. The youngest of six I was content to follow those of my family who had already matured enough to realize their own desires and pursue them with relentless and passionate abandon.
As I grew however I was to feel different and in small ways isolated. There came times when wanting to join instead of lead, watch instead of create and listen instead of compose were no more realized than visions of Valkyries bearing down on warriors who's time had abruptly come.
I was not equipped to discover a world of my own in the broader reaches of imagination and a mountainside farmhouse. I was not capable of spinning my own web to dance on, never waking to find sustenance struggling to break free from due laden dreams, brimming of spring dawning.
My first secluded play mate crouched in the corner of a bedroom I did not belong to. It's hard carapace did not frighten me nor did it turn me away. The bright lights and attractions of my not so invisible friend, the 486 and his voice DOS, soon filled the large hole that had began to grow as my siblings aged and sought to be more independent.
As time passed, the face of that computer changed. It saw upgrades to both it's hardware and software and ever an enthusiast I found neither time nor provocation to grumble at such glittery wonders. It remained my faithful friend for many long years before another enchanting attraction stole my attentions.
As a teenager I found myself in a strange world. Integrating into cliques and groups was an occupation I simply was not trained for. Home life took on a strange oppressive hue and I struggled to find piece of mind in a raging maelstrom of negativity. I peered at hieroglyphs and cuneiform as if there were words to be deciphered and interpreted but alas I failed to acomplish that which seemed to come so easily to everyone else.
By some strange miracle or divine providence I picked up and read my first book. It was an enchanting tale that I was immersed in to my toenails and at last I felt a freedom that I could disappear into, a place where I could trace the lives and hearts of men and women, people not so different from myself.
And so it was that I spent hours, months and years reading my way to escapism and an uneasy realization. In my rampant search for a place to lay my weary burdens I forgot to attend my place of occupation. I stopped trying to fit in, to integrate.
Through many years of family breakdown, emotional disability and social seclusion, I pondered philosophical and metaphysical quandaries, I took up the mighty pen and forged my very first poems from the raw molten liquid of my seething, roiling emotions.
In time I rediscovered my love of that mechanical wonder, the express train of meteoric business and warm bedfellow of so many years, the computer. At the age of 17 I began my first stint in the institution known as Technical and further education (TAFE).
I plunged myself into the giddy world of flashing lights and technical innovation, becoming educated formally for the first time in the use of the humble computer. It has been many years since those fateful days. Marriage, fatherhood, work and toil, separation and failure.
There are times when I question myself and my efforts. Days when I feel as though I am too old for what I have done and where I have been. In retrospect I am young enough to still be living in my father's house. Young enough to still be courting women in nightclubs and making merriment with friends and intoxicants god may or may not have intended his children to consume.
Yet such things dwell far from me. I would have meaningful contributions, noteworthy actions and legacy. The frivolous ways of the young and youthful are like dreams of a time that did not find me, a way of life who's door lay open only to those who felt the fire of it's calling deep in their hearts.
So it is that I find myself a young man dreaming dreams of men who's lives had been spent chasing such a dream. The realization of greatness, not in the eyes of the majority but in the hearts of those who would seek as I seek, feel as I feel and see as I see.
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