Tell me something you can give the world that doesn’t come from your genes, your parents, your teachers, your friends, your society, your nature or your nurture.
Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? That’s what the world would like you to think. The world wants you to think that nothing comes out of a human being that it didn’t put in there to begin with.
And the world lies. When you emerged from that birth canal, something emerged that never existed before, something that originates only in you and exclusively in you. With your arrival came a vision of the world, not as it is, but as it should be. And the meaning of your life is to make it that way.
Not a talent, not a personality trait, not an aptitude or acuity. A vision. And the success of that vision depends on your faith in it. Because if you don’t have faith in it, no one else will.
The world is going to be hostile to that vision. And yet more hostile to your faith in it. Why? Because the world resists change, and this vision is the only force that can effect real change.
But your sense of what is wrong with the world, your indignation, your vision of how things must be—that’s not an effect, but a cause; not a movement, but a mover; not a result, but a primal origin. It is not from the world or of the world. It enters from far beyond. It changes everything.
Which means you’re going to need a faith in that vision that can overpower the entire world.
My world? - My world. My world is a series of strung memories, slow songs, copper streetlights dancing over my skin during long car rides, first kisses yet to be shared, poems yet to be read, apologies I was too afraid to make, mistakes I don’t know how to undo, pulse punching through me every moment I write, and the laughs that I have yet to enjoy. My world is not only my world; it is your world, her world, his world, our world. The lines of my world are not defined. I have not found my world, but am creating it. My world is a glorious accident, a turbulent land. My world cannot fit into four pages. My world is experienced in a life so minuscule, so short, yet so colossal. My world is the only place where I, a creation, have the power to also be a creator.
“Every man has forgotten who he is. One may understand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than any star. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; but thou shalt not know thyself. We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we
forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful moment we remember that we forget.” ― G.K. Chesterton