It seems like a short while ago when no dream seemed like just a dream. Making a billion, changing the world, ending poverty, peace and a few such things seemed pedestrian and utterly possible. There was a fire in me to go and be a part of the action, with merely passing doubts about what’s possible. Nothing seemed big, and I wanted to be everywhere.
The thirties have come and my dreams have become smaller. A comfortable bed excites me more than a peace march, and jobs more than work. I fear that a time may come when CVs, pay checks, and paid holidays will dominate my days and worse: my imagination. My fickle motivation for larger things acts like a candle in its last moments, generally low but with moments of brightness and I realize that I am in my thirties.
Five years ago it was Ulysses that captured my imagination, and I wrote bombastically to a friend on my PhD plans, “It is time to seek a newer world, for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the western stars, to strive, to seek to find and not to yield” ; that was of course in those rash twenties. Today, I have found myself and have yielded. King Arthur’s Farewell that I read with relish in school seems more appropriate today as I continue sailing into the ocean of life with my adventures behind me.
I recall with jealousy the evening conversations between friends in high school, when we were united in our differences by nothing but our passionate selves; passion for everything from theoretical physics to beautiful girls. Some fires remain, and I rely on our histories to unite us today.