November 30, 1998
Some are just born more prodigious than others. And the rest are left salivating at the others' glory of possessing some miracle of nature. No matter how praised I was as a child, no matter how much potential I think I am suppose to harbor, I just can't force that astounding gift of bearing that ultimate talent that I would be renowned for. Sure, in my class, here and there, and a little bit above average, but never sparkling with the sign of that unnatural greatness surpassing the mere sharpness of mind which so few in our world retain. And why would people fuel my fire by bestowing such blazing hope of one-day unearthing my treasure? Indeed, it does not help; I feel so close that I can feel that warmth of genius in certain, short wisp of moments, and then, again, out of my reach, crushed by failure or defeat. I hear them, and I see interviews with them, those wonders; supernatural beings doing things out of the ordinary. But they never asked for it, they never wanted it, they never even cared about having it -they are essentially nonchalant about the boon that is so rare to others. What about me? I am left hanging upon that one taste of divinity that is allowed to me, and the rest? I have sculpted my person, my being, my soul, my aura to await the crown's jewel that should be mine, that should sit in this spot of virtuoso reserved for its presence! But alas, empty. I am but a clam without a pearl -the perfect empty shell.
Today I still feed that dying pseudo-inferno. I plastering it with...with things that I wish could fill the cracking void of that missing something that someone forgot to give me. Desperately filling my head with Plato and Sartre and Tolstoy, terms and words and esoteric combinations. Purposely embodying some skin-deep insanity, swallowed pills, self-mutilation, and shrinks...ah ha! But of course, all geniuses are mad are they not? I wonder if I were to cut off my ear or perhaps dance around the open street, shouting some prophetic words, would that promote me to my desired rank? My pompous sneer, the set and stern character worn with the faux-fur collar and sophisticate. The tweed jacket and the simple black scarf, the silver-rimmed glasses, oh yes that would complete the confident hauteur in my façade. And what do I have to show besides my golden-nib pen and that breast-watch? A handful of instructions for an impossible case (and less than that of french de me débrouiller). Poor, poor Zhen. Sitting alone on the late autumn patio with her gray dying leaves, playing chess with herself. Oh heavens, is she losing that match as well? Why can't I just settle for my mediocre mind? I'll squeeze myself through school and buy the first apron. Stop wasting your time trying to ensnare dreams of another world. Just admit you are no paragon of brilliancy, and settle for the title of a model wife.
No, I'd rather die!