A Constitution of Character

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Simply what the title entails...

Submitted: May 30, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 30, 2008



As now I sit here within an institution truly that I have no part of in any regard; nor intellect, nor attachment, nor emotion; I find myself once again reverting to that comfort of all comforts – the written word. Truly I find solace in such and it is that which also brings me much strife – being that my writing is so identified by numerous individuals as “wordy” and “lacking in clarity” – or rather they would say “unclear.” Alas, to you I say so be it. If thus is my manner of writing it is that which you will have to contend with; no matter the idiocy of such “accepted” writing methods of the English language. Accepted? Such a state of being is what I struggle with day after day. Let it be clear that I use such a term in the utmost delicacy and not one which provokes a discussion of “identity” and “inner angst.” To that I will leave to those Holden Caulfield’s of this world; let them without reason complain of their luxury. Rather, I find frustration today not in my identity – for I am in that regard of great confidence – it is rather that my frustrations are to be found within those institution’s which is my obligation to be immersed within: yes, not associated but immersed.
Repeatedly have I shared with others my frustrations with the educational system of America: ultimately the over-education of individuals – a phenomenon recent only to this relative era. But to this matter I have already devoted, perhaps, too much time. Rather, it is that which I pursue now which serves as the spring of my frustrations: the age of youth. I speak truly when I say such, for it is the end that I endure the present. What comes at such an ending? Ask not such a question for the end of youth is a reward unto itself. Naïve you may assert are my conjectures and frustrations. Or perhaps you do associate me rather with those Holden Caulfield’s of this earth. Let not me be the judge.
Whether it be my unfortunate advantage or lasting torture, I was born much older than my physical age has so determined me to be. I implore you now not to think my head inflated with compliments: I assure you I take part not in the complex of the “serious violinist.” Rather, my demeanor is not which constitutes most young people of my age. Many a times have individuals commented on my character and comportment: a wisdom and sophistication that far surpasses my years. Truly, it is more than maturity that I possess but dignity and a soul truly compassionate – a demeanor surpassing many adults advanced in age as well. The pathos of my character facilitates a communication deeper than the cacophonic sounds of verbal speech: that which I relate to you now; an inexplicable psychological facet that allows, yes, a deeper connection with omnipresent moral values of human society. Yes, now you may scoff at my naivety. But rather it takes one of such seemingly pretentious assertions to articulate the constitution of their soul. Never would I share such sentiments with any individual for I am one that lets the outermost thoughts of my mind steep alongside the innermost yearnings of my soul.
I thrive within a society that shelters and nurtures their youth. But it is youth that I try to repel. I am not one that engages in the trivialities of “teenage angst”; I am one to condemn such stupidity. Never have I “hung out” or been associated with the crowd. And what of friends? Never have I had a friend in the true sense of the word to talk and laugh with. Always has it been pleasant people with similar interests but never friends. Who was it that said “one may have many associates but few friends?” I have many associates: and I ask not for more. Truly, I complain not. I prefer rather to discuss with you, reader if you be there, my state of being – not that which I have not or avoided.
Early on in my high school career – I recall not exactly the year – I decided to sign up for a day long ski trip to a mountain of no great distinction nor distance. Specific to my experience that day was my sudden realization of how little I held in common with my peers. Having tried without avail to connect and include myself within the school community I found that truly I was not to be a part of such an institution: to whom the fault belonged I knew not.
On such a day the ski chalet was my haven: nestled snuggly beneath the frozen limbs of sparkling pines; for me a venue of ecstasy to an already befuddled mind. I recall sitting comfortably on worn, faded pillows, my face pleasantly warmed by the roaring fire and contented by the utter tranquility of being alone amidst strangers. It seemed that nature herself hid me away from the mountain: hidden by winter’s frozen perspiration on frigid panes of glass. The logs complained without mercy as I sat in the satisfaction of my solitude: hissing and snapping without resolve at perhaps the fire that ripped and tore through the grains of its previous contentment. Antique wooden skis hung decoratively above the mantle in great contrast to the logs of knotted pine comprising the walls of my escape. A discolored rug lay surrounded by mismatched pieces of rustic furniture: frayed and worn by feet encased in those menacing plastic jaws of boots facilitating that downward movement of one so bound to beam’s of metal-like plasticity. A silence pervaded the air: one derived from the singular seclusion I so inflicted upon myself. I strive to live a life of the moment as such was my resolve to do so on such a singular frozen afternoon in December. Without avail have I pursued the present by means of my obligatory citizenship in academia. Warmed by the burning fire and scalding hot chocolate, I listened intently to myself; knowing the truth of my youth. Perhaps youth is for me an age of endurance rather than that of exploration. Has God so blessed me with an emotional intellect that surpasses far those of this world’s youth? Truly, I am not naïve nor are my opinions inflated. I understood, then, as I do now, a simple truth which I struggled not greatly with but accepted and devised a resolution: My youth has expired. Yes, but youth in the true sense of the word: entailing genuine ignorance and tremendous naivety. And such a resolution? Simply what I have pursued for many years: to endure the present for the end. Contentment is that which reverberates within the emotions of my mind: an existence thriving not on such a prelude to living life – as such youth is – but that which destiny holds; what I deem it thus to be.
Rejuvenated I found myself after such an affirmation of truth. And now? Now I allow such a truth to rest contented within a soul tormented by the parameters of societal bias. It is thus my secret. Each and every day as I rise I endeavor the end – surely, not the result of such an age but the moment which I may gladly cast off its burdensome chains; chains cloaking how truly I should thus be perceived. Reader if you be there, and I know not whether ever shall I reveal such innocent (ah! youth pervades) ramblings, understand quite simply that when the end is achieved I hope not to be disappointed. Will I regret not partaking in the innocent pleasures of youth? Never. Did I not say prior to such that I am much older than thus my physical body deems? I resolved steadfastly to make aware those who are not: Youth is not an age or period but an experience which every person endures at some stage in their earthly existence. It remains truly a psychological formative of ones mind. Youth is not the vagabond child of individuals limited in their years tagging along without due course until they reach the realm of “adulthood.” No. Let not you hold this false perception: Youth is that which I repel solely because once did I walk with such a vagabond child and play among the fields of life. Only once was such a time. Many years have passed since I parted ways with such a child. I frolic not with the vagabond children of youth but pursue rather the supple yields of life’s fields. For now do I scoff at those who frolic amidst the tree’s of life’s greatest passions: I rest on such limbs but am eternally reminded of what I deplore beneath.

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