Time changes our perception of things. Things we used to believe, the way we used to behave, to think, to live, all different with the passing of time. If a person is encountered who does not change, then that person is barely a person at all, but a beast, stuck walking the same path around its life, like a wolf stuck in a cage at a zoo. Change, the ability to adapt to it, to redefine who we are, is what makes us human.
I look back at myself, at my life thus far, at the age of 23. I see how I used to be. Starting out for quite a long time of my younger life, innocent, God-fearing, morally upright. Shy, but not unfriendly. The type who would lead if given the chance, but would follow as well. It was all the same to that boy. No cares, no worries, other than those pertaining to the afterlife, and the worry of my destination after death. Not such an innocent thing, but that's the way I was raised.
Then, I became increasingly introspective, spending days at a time in books, inside the house, or out in the woods, it didn't matter which. Just me and the pages. I loved that. There's something to be said for the beauty of the printed page, all environmental concerns aside. The smell of paper, the crinkle of the leaves being turned, and the suspense of a page turning to reveal what the next plot point was. I never had much truck with non-fiction in those days. No, I wanted nothing but fuel for my imagination, which at the time was filled with friendly dragons, tame sword fights, and peaceful voyages across the stars.
This continued until I got my first real, taxable income, job. I was so shy and quiet that I don't believe anyone got two words out of me for the first month I worked there. People made it their mission to get me to come out of my shell, to talk to them. That was also where I met my wife. She was especially responsible for pulling me out of myself and making me into a person who could actually participate in a social setting.
I'm not sure when the rage began. Looking back now, it's all cloudy. Dusty, like furniture stored in an attic and never used. There's nothing sinister there I'm sure of it, and yet somehow I know that between the ages of about 13 and 16 I was filled with an unquenchable anger at everything. I've written of this before. Mostly I believe it to be righteous anger, rage at the inequities inherent in our world, but there is a darker side as well. A side that simply revels in blood lust and violence.
I began to fight. I had always fought a bit. My parents, believing that a person should know how to defend themselves, enrolled me in martial arts at a very young age, and I attained my black belt in Tae Kwon Do when I was 15. I enjoyed the fighting though. More than the discipline or the exercise or the camaraderie, I craved the rush of the fight. It became my driving urge. For a few years that's all I wanted.
I look back at that person now. Relatively it was a short time ago. Was it really me who destroyed friendships simply because of a desire to be the strongest man in the room? Me, who punched someone so hard they threw up, simply because they had dared to make fun of me? Me, who believed that any conflict, either personal, national, or worldwide, could and should be solved with the proper amount of violence? It was pathetic. I remember what I did and who I was now, and I find myself embarrassed. Angry with my younger self, for acting like such a fool. For throwing away all the discipline and mental fortitude, for a cheap high off of adrenaline, at the cost of my reputation among my friends. It is a completely different person I look at from then to now.
I am more cynical now as well. I no longer believe that my country is the shining white light of the world that I thought it was at that age. I no longer hold to the exact same religious beliefs that those before me followed without question. I no longer believe in the innate goodness of humankind, nor do I believe that we are inherently evil. I have found that no one in our government is worth putting my faith in to fix our country, and I believe that, were I in that situation, I would not do any better either. I have no truly pure untainted views anymore. I look at the young boy without a care in the world and think, was I really that naive at some point?
My imagination, while still filled with the dragons and swords and space trips, is no longer so innocent, as all these things are tainted by the anger and the blood lust that I hold at bay.
But you know what's really strange? I mean, what really takes the cake here?
I love who I am. I love the cynicism, the complicated belief systems, the suspicion of our leaders. I love my imagination and my anger and yes, even the blood lust. I do not regret who I have become. I am not evil, or holy. Not good or bad. I just am. I exist, and because I exist, I can love. I can love and I can hate and I can feel and I can give praise and I can deride. I can despair and I can rejoice and I can run and jump and breathe and imagine.
And once I accepted that? Well... the rush from the fighting doesn't hold a candle to the rush from simply knowing that you are alive.
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