#72 Hallmark
From the time I was born, I knew the following posit to be true: The Universe has assigned me a task, and I will not be able to sleep well, and I will not be able to die, until I have completed this task.
Early on, my ambitions, my talents, and my recognition of where these two facets can marry one another consistently eluded me. I felt fleeting moments wherein I could deduce that I was on the right track, but it took me nearly twenty-five years of farting around and barking up every tree that looked appealing for me to finally understand my mythical quest.
The Universe demands of me to write. It cares not what I want to do, what I think would be best for me, nor what rewards I think I deserve for this task. It only cares that I diligently perform this task, and it scolds me by wounding my pride, my ego, and my sense of amusement whenever I try to stray too far from my task.
I think that every single human being has two things in common: One, that they are self aware, and thereby possess a conscience, and two, that they were put on earth to accomplish something, and their own minds become restless when they are failing to accept their given task, and even more so when they are failing to work hard at their task.
I think some people are so attuned to this basic law of existence that they have never before even thought about it, but have easily been working at it, and are therefore blessed, because they don’t worry about the decisions they make; they flow with the nature they were given, and they diligently perform their given task, or tasks, with great ease and flexibility.
I don’t think that I was cursed, I actually feel quite blessed, daily, for the many skills and opportunities that I was born with. But I also have become increasingly aware of my own difficult, stubborn tendency to fight the flow of my own nature.
I am a writer. I may not like the title, and I may not like the assignment, but when I write, I feel right. And when I do anything else that makes me feel good, it doesn’t even come close to fulfilling me the way that writing does.
And so I write. And then I get upset with my job, since the pay sucks, the hours are hell, and I don’t even get the experience of having my ego stroked by a boss, an employee, or anyone else for that matter. I write for an audience of one, and it’s me, and I’m my own biggest fan and my own biggest critic. But when I write the truth as I see it, and I print out the page, I feel divine, I feel one with the universe, and I know, I KNOW, that I have done the right thing.
I usually jump on the bitter single cheapskate anti-consumerism bandwagon this time of year, and lament all that Valentine’s Day encompasses. First of all, even when I have been in love on Valentine’s Day, the day never lives up to its potential, it’s really, after all, just the middle of February, the coldest month of the year. Furthermore, my maternal grandmother died on Valentine’s Day, so the holiday typically reminds me of someone I loved, dying of cancer, and derailed by Alzheimer’s disease to the point where she would get excited by the rudimentary act of successfully using a toilet.
But this year, I’m being my own Valentine. I’m choosing to put the positive love energy that I possess into myself, I’m choosing to embrace myself, my gifts, my own love for my own world, the same one that we all share, but each create on our own, and I’m dedicating February fourteenth to myself, and to the concept of hallmark:
Hall – Mark (noun) 1. Any mark or special indication of genuineness, good quality, etc. 2. Any distinguishing feature or characteristic: Accuracy is a hallmark of good scholarship.
My personal hallmark is to write. My personal hallmark is to be a writer. Every teacher and professor who ever actually got to know me beyond a name in the upper right hand corner of an exam or essay has given me this stamp. I have been given this stamp by most of my peers, all of my relatives, my own parents, my brother, and most of all, by the supernatural force of the Universe that has diligently pressed me to accept it.
The Universe has pressed me to write via countless nights of insomnia, bouts with self-degrading depression inducing self pity, and most of all, it has rewarded me for accepting this task with the bliss I attain each and every time I commit myself to the task of writing. I am finally, truly ready to embrace my own hallmark, and I don’t even have to go out and buy a card to prove it. I just did it by writing this essay.
I am not writing for a publisher anymore, I am not writing to impress any of you readers either, and I am certainly not writing to impress the Universe. I’m writing so that I can calm myself, relax, and enjoy the world that I was born into. And I’m learning to love this task, and so I wish myself a Happy Valentine’s Day.
Hell, I may even go out and buy myself some chocolate and play myself a love song on the guitar. Because no one will ever love me as well as I can love myself, and no one ever should, and this shouldn’t make me feel sad, lonely, or despondent; it should do quite the opposite—and it finally does. I have finally realized that by actually loving myself I can feel truly blessed, and enshrined in a spiritually enlightened state of pure bliss.
It only sucks to be you if you don’t appreciate yourself. So give yourself a big, sloppy hug, and for god’s sake, tell yourself you love you for Valentine’s Day. And if you’re in a relationship, it’s probably also not a bad idea to tell your partner the same thing, or else you might be sleeping on the couch for a while.
