Aspiring Author

When I was a kid, I remember sitting in history class looking at pictures of ancient city ruins. There was an earthenware bowl in one of the pictures. I remember thinking that someone had probably used it regularly but had not really given much thought to its significance aside from its immediate function. They had no way of knowing it would end up being one of a dozen or so things that represented their entire civilization. I considered the sheer number of people that had lived and died throughout history. People who, after a few generations, no one would remember. Their names, faces, and stories gone forever. I then proceeded to have my first existential crisis.

I visualized the entire human experience as this raging storm of dark swirling matter suspended for an insignificant moment in time and space. Near its center was the edge of what I perceived to be oblivion. I saw myself at the threshold watching all of man’s efforts, save a few, get sucked into this vortex to be forgotten. I was terrified for the billions of voices never speaking up and never being heard. I saw myself screaming at the void knowing no one could hear me; but in my mind, speaking up was important because maybe there was a chance that I would be heard. Eventually, the class ended and I went about my day.

I think about that class from time to time and laugh that my middle school teacher had no idea the level of existential dread that was coursing through one of her students from a simple (and frankly quite boring picture of ancient pottery). I think that was the day I resolved to become an author. I had written things before, but I think I gained the burning desire to put something out into the world in that history class.