- Politics and Social Issues
Are You An Impostor?
It's time to recognize...
I did it again. I journeyed from one end of the building at work to the other and completely forgot where I was going, or, more importantly, what I was going to do when I get there. I had good intentions, I did. I was off to set someone onto the right track. I was about to change an existing process, or save someone from performing a task in an incorrect or harmful way, or... eh, I lost it. Completely slipped through my mind. My brain had commenced and ceased on an abundance of topics from my starting point to my ultimate ending coordinates.
This is not a rare occasion. I am a daydreamer - I exist in the world of the abstract. I struggle to conform to the routine ways of what society perceives to be the "normal life". I rise at 5AM. I shower, brush my teeth, prepare myself for another day of work. I drive to work in the dark; I return to home in the dark. I work through my lunches taking care of paper work or catching up on emails as I shove some food down my gullet. "What's it like outside?" I often ask colleagues as they return to the building from breaks. I am compelled to investigate and discover what I may be missing as the day passes before me. I persevere, fully admitting to myself that tomorrow will completely mirror today.
Don't get me wrong - there are many aspects of my job I do enjoy. There are different occasions in which I get to indulge myself and dive into my creative genes to develop new processes and create process flows. I also have the freedom to be on my feet. I am not one to be tied down and sit still for a prolonged period of time. I have on office but I also have the opportunity to roam freely on the floor and engage with my team. There's never a dull moment or a lull in activity. That being said, it's high time I recognize that, although I can thrive in a business environment, it is not and will never be my passion.
The struggle within me
I am a writer. I have been one for as long as my memory allows me to recall. I recollect penning short stories of monstrous manifestations and their diabolical schemes to conquer the local town. Somehow, no matter how the story began, it would always lead to this same premise. My school teachers were worried - my mother was worried. The parent - teacher conferences would consist of the usual conversations: the instructor would orate their diatribe on how young boys shouldn't include such violence in their stories. My Mother was at a loss; she enjoyed my creativity and never attempted to thwart it but she never quite understood what lingered in my mind.
As I grew older, my prose was altered and advanced, as one would assume. There were gaps in my writing during adolescence. It wasn't until my late teenage years where I geared attention towards the written word again. Fiction was always my game, and first person point of view was my weapon of choice. I'm released into the story with my own senses, and simply describe the characters and scenery before me. The only trouble is turning this switch off when the right time calls for it. To this day, I battle my literary narrative like a nemesis in the night. I know he is there, lurking, sniping, awaiting his next chance to wreak his havoc on the keys.
A Day in the Life
Her scent was that of vanilla, fresh and with a modest application, probably hand lotion. Her wide eyes of indigo rested upon me. Ceiling fans swirled above our heads, the humming of the electrical impulses propelling its motion. Within the vacuum of my ears are the screeches of toddlers longing to rest their digits on every inch of the world formng around them. Our eyes meet yet again; a smile slips from her mouth as if forced. Then I realized that her forced smile is because she's the cashier at the produce store and I am standing at the checkout line, daydreaming and lost in my own narrative - again. I find myself being raptured from the "normal life" into the abstract. The tiniest morsel of the average slice of life draws me into my first person alter ego. For, in that world, time stands still, until I grant it permission to continue. My scenery is set to my likeness as if it were an adjustable sleep number bed. The characters linger in a perpetual state of the unknown. Only I, the omnipotent one, has the answers that they seek.
Outside of this realm, I need to pay for my groceries, place my daughter back into the car seat and drive home. I must make sure she is fed and bathed, and talk to my wife and decide what we're doing for dinner - if she is cooking tonight for the rest of us, or if we are free to grab whatever we want. Then, I am bothered by small specks of crumbs on the floor and feel the urge to grab the dirt devil and remove these tiny fragments that only I have noticed. Lastly, once dinner has completed, I soak the sponge in lemon scented dish soap, scrub down the kitchen table and spend an inordinate amount of time lining up all of the dining chairs so that they are symmetrical and thus rest easily on my eyes. Everything is relative, and, to me, that is a "normal" night at home.
Hit the switch?
As I writer, do you find it difficult to turn off the switch when you believe the time is right?
Coming to terms
When I was in high school the term "poser" was used a lot. It referred to those individuals that liked to dress the part but just weren't capable of pulling it off. I would have no idea of that term is still used today, but, it simply means "you're a fraud". Back then, the "P" was the scarlet letter. Many would remain in denial for an indefinite amount of time, sometimes for the duration of their high school years.
I wonder, in this stage of my life, who is it that I should really be portraying? I remain as a worker bee, following in the same line to the office building, in the convenience store, at the traffic light. First come, first serve. Clock in, clock out. Red light, green light. My literary id hovers over my left shoulder, pressing his palms together, patiently awaiting his next opportunity to lure me back with another dose of descriptive dialogue and detailed destinations. The only question for him is - what will jettison him into action? Will it be the flickering fluorescent light in the hallway at work? The breeze grasping the leaves in the air only to gingerly transport them to the ground in an autumn afternoon? Or, is it how that one individual always loves to end every sentence with "you know"? The possibilities are endless.
Alas, I am here to come clean and admit it - I am an impostor. I trudge along, as everyone else, blending right into society. Inside, I struggle to conform. I struggle with the mere notion if I ever want to conform. If behaving differently meant quelling my literary combatant, then that's not the path I choose to take. I severely doubt I am alone. With that being said, I ask of you, are you an impostor?