elczenius

Please bear with me while I traverse the painful road of cliched self-reflection. In many ways, this is necessary for myself (they do say that you have to write a hundred books of bad stuff before the good stuff starts coming out), albeit an action that is overdone like charred fish  (black, stiff, crumbly, and quite frankly, distasteful.). As a graduating university student, life is, at least at this very instant, a momentous occasion that requires a certain amount of dramatic self-examination. A type of overpiped, personal spectacle that will, in few years, become a distant irrelevance, a stain on the past in need of brushing off, hastily, before anyone else witnesses this terrible moment of shame.

On Goals.

This is fairly obvious, but I consider goals to be an object - an entity? - that provides motivation, dedication, and momentum to your life. You may agree or disagree with me, but without goals, I believe a person wouldn’t be able to move forward; they are, in essence, an affirmation of life that allow you to know and feel with all rationality, “I am alive.”

Some goals are so close that they practically touch your nose; you need only reach out and it’s within your grasp. Some goals are so distant and ethereal that they are less a goal and more a dream. Some to the point where even the dream is but a wavering mist that exists, yet doesn’t exist. These occur when the distance between point A and B is so great that you can’t even imagine the proper road to take. It’s just something that hovers at the back of your mind … but doesn’t really come into play in your life.

I’ve recently stumbled upon a certain opportunity, no, a slim chance that may seem obvious to grab with all haste. Pondering on the guidelines and taking a glance at the prize, though, brings to bear a significant question I should have been asking myself years ago:

Just what the hell is my goal, anyway?

I am a Christian, one who is devoted to a certain religion and strives to achieve a better, higher ground in faith.
I claim the title of otaku, a 2D maniac-and-Japanophile who is fascinated with a dying culture.
I love to play games, but my skill brings to mind that of a shark attempting to type on a keyboard.
I pretend to be able to write, but my hours of writing compared to my hours of playing bring that into significant doubt.
I love to sketch, but the amount of time and effort I put into improving casts a suspicion on the amount of dedication I have.

In a few words, except for one thing, I have no idea what I am or what I want to do. My goal-less life is screaming at me to get a grip on something, anything, that will shove me forward, but I simply flail in indecision, moving neither forward, backwards, or even side to side. However, Reality (with a capital ‘R’) is shoving its ugly, alluring head into my face, and the resulting nosebleed is reminding me that unless I am willing to find something to dedicate myself to, nothing is going to change. I’ve been given all this education and experience … but I have no idea what to do with them. I receive either of the two, only to have them dribble out of my ears with nothing to apply them to.

Oh, there are things which I would certainly be able to dedicate myself to. Abstract things. Physical things. But neither my God nor my fiancee can make me take the step forward; only I have the ability to make that decision…and I certainly have to decide. Which path? Which road? What goal is it that I choose for myself?

I have often been told that we are blessed to have such freedom - and I agree, truly, that freedom - in as unpolitical sense as humanly possible - is a wonderful thing. But thinking about it, I would much rather be a slave to my dream than a free person who has no dream, and therefore achieves nothing.

Amateur. His jagged steps practically screamed it. The dim, flickering light of the fireplace lit nervous, shaking hands. His face was strained, as one trying to act casually, but his eyes flicked back and forth too quickly, from faces to clothing; an appraising look of one who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He sat down with a sudden movement, almost jerking the chair back. The idiot didn’t even order a drink from me, making the pickpocket stand out even more. His eyes rested on the couple across from him, a slight smile growing on his face. I turn to look at them.

A woman and a man in the opposite corner, she with a slight sneer on her face, he with a false smile that didn’t reach his eyes, eyes that darted back and forth, between the woman next to him and the door across the room.  Both are dressed to look rich, with shining jewelry and clothing cut to imitate the upper class fashion. But if you look more closely, the dress she wears is of cheap, gaudy material, and the layered shirt of the man next to her is ill-fitting, with a bad cut. On top of that, he smells like he hasn’t washed in weeks. Might be a sham, though they’ve been sitting long enough with few enough drinks that it might not be.

Another man at the bar, patch-worked clothing giving him the air of a beggar. Mismatched boots and ale-stained clothing. Only his movement betrays him; quick, sharp actions; he seems an impatient man, itching to get out of this sorry excuse for a tavern. I watch from the corner of my eye as he raises his cup and seems to take a deep drink. A sip went into his mouth, the rest onto the floor. As he turns slightly, I smile at the sight of the glint of steel. Law enforcer in disguise, it looked like. If that idiot decided to do anything in my establishment, he’d definitely get himself caught. I may have a middle-class business, but I still have somewhat of a reputation to keep.

Confidence. Be suave, witty, but don’t stand out. I immediately notice the hinges on the door. I like a good, stout door as much as any other person, but do tavern doors always have to squeal so much? A loud bang, and the door shuts me inside the bright interior.

“Welcome, welcome!”

The barkeeper. His mustache makes him look like a rat got glued to his face. He’s of the same profession as me, I’ve always thought, but he’s made it a legit business, and soaks his victims so deeply in stinking barrels of ale they don’t even notice when they’ve reached the bottom of their purses. I don’t let them see the bottom of their purse; I simply take the whole thing, or cut the bottom out. Merchants. Disgusting class, if you ask me. They’re thieves as much as I am, but they sweet-talk their targets into giving their money willingly. They make it so their customers only have themselves to blame for losing their money. At least I give them someone else to blame.

I walk across the room with slow footsteps and sit down in a corner where I can see everyone . It’s important to pick your targets carefully. Take opportunity when she drops by, but planning ahead of time saves me the hassle, and is less likely to get the authorities on my heels.

In the opposite corner, a couple sits together. Both are dressed in middle-class clothing. They remind me of a rich couple I had recently gotten away from with a healthy amount of money. Well, granted, they weren’t that rich, but I still had managed to get a relatively- ah, well, enough to buy a meal or two, anyway. Well,  I guess the tavern has a good enough reputation that the upper class come in every now and then. I allow a small smile to creep across my face. Those two would be a good option. I’m sure they have a good amount of silver in their pockets. All it would need is a casual bump on the way out. I’m a professional, after all, so I’ll probably be able to get it in one go. Well, I haven’t exactly done this too many times, but I still consider myself a professional anyway. My success rate has been one hundred percent, after all. Well, except for that one time- ah, but no need to think of that, no need.

I look around for any other targets, ignoring the merchantman’s steady gaze. He’s probably looking at the dirty beggar in front of me. An ugly-looking man with patch-work clothing drank deeply from his cup, some of the stuff dribbling down his sordid face. He wouldn’t have anything on him. Even if he had any pennies, he should at least spend them on cleaning himself up. Well, I suppose I’ll head outside to get away from his stink. I’ll wait at a convenient spot for the couple when they exit.