It's impossible to know everything. We spend all our lives in an endless thirst for knowledge, always pursuing that one last source; that one last book; that one last remnant of what we think we lack. When we began, we were starry-eyed neophytes, in love with the idea of things; of what we were searching for.
But when we find it, we are older, and wiser, and we know better than our younger selves. What we searched for does not--truly--exist. Or, perhaps, it exists only in ideas. Those who came before us regaled our younger selves with stories of their battles to get where they are, never remembering that they, too, began their journey seated at someone's feet, listening to a story; a story; nothing more.
There's never mention of the hardship, of waking up breathless, praying that the next attempt works out; that we do not fail... again. There's never mention of the paths we could have taken, the distractions that--even now--strive to force us from our paths. Some of us revel in distraction, and never return to our destined path. Some of us fail too many times and surrender.
We never make a conscious decision to give up our dreams. We don't physically close the door behind us; we don't abruptly turn our backs. It's more sinister, the ennui, until one day we wake up and realize that we're old, and we're surrounded by things and experiences we don't really recognize as our own.
But how long can you truly live with opened eyes? How long before you forget again, before the familiar confines of your life lull you back into dreamland; back where you can't quite remember what you've forgotten?
And how do you step back on the path you left behind so long ago?
--The Forgotten
But when we find it, we are older, and wiser, and we know better than our younger selves. What we searched for does not--truly--exist. Or, perhaps, it exists only in ideas. Those who came before us regaled our younger selves with stories of their battles to get where they are, never remembering that they, too, began their journey seated at someone's feet, listening to a story; a story; nothing more.
There's never mention of the hardship, of waking up breathless, praying that the next attempt works out; that we do not fail... again. There's never mention of the paths we could have taken, the distractions that--even now--strive to force us from our paths. Some of us revel in distraction, and never return to our destined path. Some of us fail too many times and surrender.
We never make a conscious decision to give up our dreams. We don't physically close the door behind us; we don't abruptly turn our backs. It's more sinister, the ennui, until one day we wake up and realize that we're old, and we're surrounded by things and experiences we don't really recognize as our own.
But how long can you truly live with opened eyes? How long before you forget again, before the familiar confines of your life lull you back into dreamland; back where you can't quite remember what you've forgotten?
And how do you step back on the path you left behind so long ago?
--The Forgotten
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