The yin to my yang, I figure. We are two different men, but strikingly similar I'd say. A brother of an old friend, he is. Younger brother. Which is funny to think because he is all taller and slimmer and sharper in the jaw than my dear old high school chum. And he's striving for greatness, he is, writing letters of possible fellowship to professors, doctors and researchers at universities throughout the West States and Australia. It's a passion of his, this research, this academia. The PhD is just a sidenote he says. Or in his words, "If you do it just for the title, it's probably not worth it." It's hard work. But it's hard work he wants. And that is where we differ. Well no, maybe not. I think I'd quite like perhaps the work if it were brought on.
We differ in work ethic, I think. In determination and laziness. The work would be all right, rewarding even. Stimulating in interest. But the self-will to get the work, the prolonged concentration and goal-sight that he has is lost on me. For something like that anyway.
Ah! But alas, maybe I'm too hard on myself. After all, the pessimist in me holds great sway. I know this. I'll give it a go perhaps when I return. For now, I'll just write. And write and write like I've been doing, always running away to far countries. It's what I know, and it flows so freely (as the hairs fall on the page) with such release that I don't stop, even when the palm begins to ache. It feels so good sometimes. There's just that reluctant reality in the fact that there's no living in this, not that I see anyway. Or there is, I just don't know how to get there. Oh well, maybe I'll figure it out. I mean look at Blake. He's on such a path with a strong stride as he always has. And he likes to write, and he writes like I do. With passion and well words.
If only he were that way with the women.
(that's where we differ)
