Sunday, April 22, 2012

A dream told me...

My sister wanted to be a poet. At first I was surprised of this career choice coming from an acclaimed perfectionist - for poets do not gain success or money easily (those qualities included in the perfect life). Once I focused on the writing of poetry, though, I saw her appeal for it. Metered lines, perfect rhymes. The model for perfection.

She claimed that with her best friend she would run up and down the aisles of the school auditorium for exercise. Sometimes they would hide from the janitor behind the orchestra wall. They did this when she got writer’s block. It is hard to imagine my sister running to avoid writer’s block. Perhaps her marathons are remnants of those days.

I’ve been comparing my sister to myself forever. When she followed the pictures on the Lego box I found that boring and created masterpieces with whatever was left over. I claim myself abstract. And here I see it too. I require freedom of words and sentences and fragments. She needs a structure to place words into.

I just found out in a roundabout way that my sister wrote poetry. She is not a poet. She is an accountant. Her structure is evident (in gaining success and money easily). I guarantee she would have been a better poet than I a writer. I am more accustomed to breaking the mold I suppose.

I find it much more difficult to abandon my childhood dream for a successful life. Life will be difficult no matter which path I choose. I’d like to live the happier one. However, there is always time to reconsider this. An unsuccessful writer cannot stand beside a successful accountant and feel good. Perhaps freedom comes at a price. Perhaps this is why my sister is not a poet.

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