I am not selecting an audience, or am I? I have no desire to be famous in my lifetime, though the “Get Rich Quick” scheme appears to be burrowed in the hearts of our pop culture, especially for my generation. No. I would rather my name be mentioned after death, the way Picasso and Pollock are praised for their genius now more so, than when they lived. It is the man or woman that dies a human death, but remains immortal in literature and art that appeases me. I would much rather you find me a precocious bore now, and have your children learn about in school, than to be exalted for my insightful character and distinction among other writers.
What other writers?
My generation prides itself on People Magazine naming Jennifer Lopez the most beautiful woman (and by all means, she is very beautiful to me as well). My generation eats away at Media Take Out and goes insane for Justin Beiber, taking ill with Beiber Fever, dying to hear him sing to them “baby, baby, baby oh”! What could my generation possibly want with me? I’m always going against the grain, and I lead a very secretive lifestyle. Few know the depth of my dark ways, as they dive into their own sinful, denigrate nature each day.
I am not the trendsetter. I am not the hot chick in the club. I am not the girl that has a different man every week, with a restless desire to obtain money “by any means necessary”. I am not “the bitch.” As I have said, the fancy cars don’t cause these eyes of mine to brighten, and I judge a man by his character and not his wallet. Foolish me? My taste for a variety of men is like my taste for a life well lived. I dabble in a bit of everything just to see what might excite me. I don’t give my life boundaries and I search for ways to make my endorphins thank me for their release. I live for their freedom! I cannot be summed up or broken down, and though many have tried and said that I am simple, I assure them with a smile they are right. Why should I tell them that we are all complex beings? No! Let them think they know me. The only sure thing is that we know nothing.
I wish I had something to live for, beyond this hope that a breakthrough will bring me to Nirvana. Some women believe a ring or wedding is the ultimate defining moment. Some women feel that the day they give birth will be their breakthrough moment. Some women believe the day they step out of a limo, walk on a red carpet and paparrazzi scream their attention for a flash will be their moment. I sadly wait for the day when my visions connect with my reality. When reverie becomes reality and I’m more than what I thought I could be, because I have arrived, will be the day I have my breakthrough.
It’s far away. The days in between my present moment and my breakthrough disgust me. I always want to grow, grow, grow like a florishing flower each day, more and more, but I shrivel up in the darkness. I crave excitement to remind me that I am still alive. Pinches will not suffice. Love is not enough, though it never hurts. A tingle or two, like shingles, works everytime. I tire myself everyday, trying to understand who I am, and why this character given to me, and created by experiences, people and environment, can only be understood by God in heaven. He knows me better than I know myself. In honesty, I try to say “this is Carmen, what I stand for, and who I am”, but everyday, I learn something new. Everyday, I find a new piece to the puzzle. Some things are pleasant, while others are displeasing. Who is this person? If you really think about it, who are you?
We all need a breakthrough. Can you tell me what it’s like on the other side?