On my refrigerator is a magnet that I purchased years ago
for its aspirational words. I had
forgotten about it until the other day when I stopped to read it as I was
taking the water out:
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are
mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same
time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn,
like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…” –
Jack Kerouac
Still beautiful and inspirational, yet, those words no
longer hold for me the same kind of magic they once did. Perhaps it’s because I
now understand that those kinds of flames burn out too fast. Perhaps it’s because
I now understand that kind of brightness often masks underlying darkness. Perhaps
it’s because I now understand those explosions are bright punctuations between the
stretches of barren fields. Perhaps it’s because I now understand that words can
inflate one’s sense of importance yet will fall short on delivery.
Kerouac’s words are still beautiful and aspirational, yet
they are just that, beautiful words.
Perhaps it’s because I now understand that I no longer need to look
outside for approval.
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