Finding a purpose

We live in a cycle. You grow up, graduate, study, graduate again and then if you like studying or you believe you want to compete with the "market", with the "others" you decide to study some more in order to secure a position. Yes, effects of capitalism and its effects on nerds. Not nerds like in a bad way, hello, I'm the proudest nerd there is. Some people have turned studying for fun, for knowledge into something boring and "out" of anything cool. That is wrong.

All of the sudden you find that a lot of people that may have mocked you at school (hopefully not everyone) are in serious situations that you don't get, because you love what you are doing. The magic word here is purpose. It may come by a magic wand, by the combination of your parents’ hard work on educating you or guiding you, it may come from deception and rebellious desires to overcome what you went through. In general, you just feel it. But the magic word for me that goes with purpose is the word doing. I've found myself totally happy in the middle of a road with a big tree, by focusing on it, finding that I'm busy but I have sensibility to that "other" thing in front of me. Is not just meat and bones, is energy. Some call it a vocation and I understand why they would label work you like doing like this word, but the root of that word is purpose. If you feel you are meant to do that, if you don't recognize it but you fall in love constantly with that action then you are blessed.

I don't know when it hit me. I guess it was when I was in a white room waiting for a heart surgeon. "That is odd!" so many people said, a heart operation at 8 years old. Same age Sarah Kofman’s family was taken away from her because of the Holocaust, poor child. That's not a heart operation but is heart ache. Speaking of averages an 8 year old with a scar in the middle of non visible boobs (for that time) was something strange. Then it stroke me like some weird lighting. I saw an angel and had the desire to tell it all. I wrote a lot being bored in that room all day for 9 days. And from there, I learned to rhyme. My dad and his rhyming games were good for me. I was fainting. I was tired, more tired than ever. It came again, I had to go to surgery again. Another chest scar. Another scar was coming.

I was happy. I felt what it was like to be loved and falled in love. Had my room full of photos of my "boo" like some people say. I was making love with poetry, because I found for partner a boy that loved letters and wrote. It was awesome. Then the age difference became a problem. Then too much love became dangerous. Then... it ended on another white room. This time the surgeon was replaced by the judge. Dating violence they say it was. Sometimes you question, was it your fault? Well, I feared heights and I wanted for as my High School graduation gift, a book. Not any book, my book. It was white again, white room, gray rain. It was fear. So much rain, it came like a déjà vú gone bad. What if I died on a 9th floor, next to the beach, so high in the sky. It was amazing. I started writing a poetry. The last sentences said: "My biggest sorrow comes for what I didn't say on time". There it was. My book. Lying down my biggest fears and sad thoughts. It came to me. Yeah, I can't deny it. When we are happy we write less, because we enjoy it so much we want to live it. Then when we are sad, we try to give the sadness wings by letting it go with each letter.

Anyway, from there I studied. I loved studying and I still love it. But I also liked teaching. In small ways, like saying excuse me, giving hugs, or telling English speakers "buen provecho" and it's meaning. Now time has passed. I have studied and am waiting for my graduation and diploma on the career that combined my passions, that was truthful to my purpose, that gave me ways to do things. The clock is ticking. Tick-tock. It's melody. It's a constant funeral of time for those who like me sometimes are addicted to the clock. I just hope people respect the nerds. I hope that people can see beyond our words and actions. It's a matter of being an "us", instead of a "me". Who gave me this? I think sometimes it was the fairies magi[k] wands. Maybe God, mostly God, but I'm done with blaming things on him like most people do.

So to finish this reflexion soup, filled with philosophy, communications and literature and testimonies. I wish I could get out of letters and fly onto your arms and hug anyone that reads this. We believe many times we are alone, and I guess the world would be better if people just hugged and said I love you more. If they knew what they loved and if they would follow that. One of this days, I'll report something. I will write news. I think I've been on the speech-teaching thing too long. :-) It’s just a thought.

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