The Weight of Contemplation: When the Silent Self Grows Louder
Article ID: 15323
Age Group: Adult
Days Up: 166
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Posted: June 30th. 2013
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I am split. In the darkness of my room, only candlelight flickers against the shadows as I wait for more formidable words to form upon my tongue. I open my mouth to say it, to verbalize the weight that has been pressing on my mind but I catch the words- Three tiny words- that have been ever present:
I am split.
I say them out loud, I whisper them as I walk the streets at night, and I dream of them- feeling them come to me in vibrant color, splashes of emotions, and sounds that follow me loyally from one world into the other.
I know why theyíre here. I know why they have become the spirit of my sacred space, haunting and whispering to me from the corner as I ignore them and continue on. Some deep and mysterious part of me has acknowledged this- that these words alone were reminding me of a higher purpose. But itís one I barely understand.
As a child, I sat in the woods. I constructed little houses for faeries, gathered flowers for the forest spirits, and dreamed of lands, far and wide, and impossible buildings. I pretended I knew ancient languages, and I sang songs to my guide at night, when I was too afraid to sleep because I feared the dark.
All I wanted to be was a famous singer or an actress. I was, after all, pretty good at being center stage. I grew older and climbed trees still, I battled dragons, I still believed in faeries, but I no longer wanted to sing. Instead, I wanted to be a Paleontologist. From there, I aspired to be an astrologist, an anthropologist, and an explorer. By the time I reached high school, I craved to be a writer- to take all the stories, the songs, the people, and places from within my mind and place them to paper. I wanted to create, to extend great emotion, and adventure from the tip of my pencil to the edge of the paper.
But by the time I started college, I felt unhappy. I sat there in class, unusually bored and careless about the topics we were learning, and I stared out of the window as it rained or shined. Iím sure the words were there then, mere murmurs drowned out by the chaos of college life. And no sooner that I began, I left. I wasnít ready for it, something was missing, and I couldnít place a finger on the issue.
Nearly 5 years later, I lay here in the darkness and stare into my ceiling. The same, unyielding feeling that something is amiss pressing down upon me- closer now than it ever was- and those three words, branded scars in my chest. They blaze, pull, twist, and nudge as though saying: Itís right here. Right in front of you. Why wonít you accept it?
And itís obvious why I wonít. I am split.
On one hand, I am rational. I know taking the next step is to educate myself. I thirst and hunger for the days when I get to learn- when I can interact in a class and feel the pages bend beneath my fingers. I was born to learn. And that is the truest fact I have ever come to know. But in being rational, what job would best suit me? I listen to people argue. Be a nurse! Youíre compassionate! And intelligent! Itís true. I could make an excellent nurse. Iím already suited to the lifestyle and it provides a healthy challenge for me. Or I hear of the merits and rewards of engineering- and while the paycheck is sure to compliment me with a lavish lifestyle, I feel as though I would be violating my oath to protect the earth, my mother and sister- my home- and I hesitate.
While I want to be a nurse, to help those who need it and be the source of comfort-
I donít want to be one at all. Because on the other hand, there is an aspect of myself that has been fighting my rational part and refuses to cease. Like my father before me (though we do not speak) I have fallen in love with the history of this planet. Itís never been a passing fancy or a spur of the moment. I spend hours lost inside the library, devouring maps, concepts, and even beliefs, marveling in old ways and the perception of those who have lived before me.
What makes it even more so complicated is the ever growing belief that I was meant to be an archivist- someone who researches, stores, and guards information. In almost every dream I have ever had, Iíve always had a library- there has always been a world inside my head where I keep each book Iíve read, each memory Iíve had, and every lesson I have learned.
If I could spend the rest of my life researching, seeking out new histories, and studying antiquity- I doubt I would ever need anything else. That would my epic love. An epic love that gives birth to a Universal School- where we all walk our separate paths together and learn of how we are beautiful, small parts to a much larger universe. There are barely any schools like it. And Iíll be damned if I donít at least try to set the foundations for it.
But Iím split.
Torn between the modern day- where you must seek financially sound ways to live and grow- financial ways that may, someday, lead to me learning the very things I burn to-
And accepting my purpose that the universe has granted me, one that I yearn for- that my soul mourns for- but possibly never having the financial means to fulfill it.
These words grow louder and louder each day- I hear them in every song, in every poem, in every book I pick up. But in todayís society, where money is nearly the only way to achieve your goals, what am I to do? How do I choose? Have you ever felt this way? I have always looked inside myself for an answer. But this is one that I cannot come to a conclusion on my own.
So I ask you- were you in my shoes, split from the inside out, which half would you choose?
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