It's safe to read about the adventures of a man long since passed than to even fathom the idea of stepping out and creating your own.
That's not true. It's easy (Not necessarily easier) to fantasize over new cultures, bold colours, lovers that you'll never meet and situations you're unlikely to be in.
I've never met anyone who has been on a real adventure. Yet, history is overflowing with people who lived extravagant, enriched, full lives. Romanticized and stylized, almost definetly but as long as there is a basis of fact, that's good enough for me.
Yet, it doesn't fill me with hope. There is a small pile of books that has set up residence at my bed side. Slowly but surely I am turning each of their pages, smelling a hauntingly unusual scent that the pages of Primo Levis "If This Is A Man" and "The Truce" holds. A tragic rendition of an inidivuals time in Auschwitz. He survived. What suffering have I ever known? Heart ache, whilst like an all consuming disease I don't think constitutes for true suffering. Look at me right now, so comfortable on my bed, a plate of dinner next to me, a television melting my brain and my dog looking at me with huge pining eyes. Safe, warm. Not for one second am I wishing that something so devastating would happen to me. Never again. No. Maybe you wont understand, but I would like anything to make me feel something. I don't think you'd ever understand what I'm trying to say right now.
"The Glass Menagerie" lays just a few pages in, spine bent. An old copy. The words of Tennesse Williams are printed. He lived his life. He's known. I'm learning about him and his works everyday in school and will be for the next few months. I'll always remember the facts and information. I'll read Steetcar, and I'll read Sweet Bird of Youth and part of me will envy Stella and envy Chance Wayne because for all their short comings they are characters that are more alive than I am.
Luckily, there is time. I'm only sixteen, which is what I've been screaming at myself for the last half an hour. I have plenty of time to live properly. The way I really want to. The only regret I have is that I know my life span will not hold on long enough to watch all the minutes of video I want to, turn all the pages of books I know would help shape me for the better. I'll miss out in some peoples words and ideas and I will die completely ignorant of them. And so will you. It's life.
Maybe I should become a modern day Lothario, perhaps I, a not so humble scottish girl from an unknown town could shake up Europe in the way Casanova did. Is it possible to do that in the mordern age? Where the shadows hold thugs on drugs, so much to be scared of? Was Giacomo?
The question is, can we really risk not finding passion in our lives?