The Flight of the Rocketman

Wrote a letter to the future
Asking for directions
It came back to me, return to sender
There I go
Am I here yet?
Am I here yet?
Am I?
-- Am I Here Yet? (Return to Sender), Performed by Billie Myers, written by Billie Myers & David Tyson

Last night was just too weird for me. I'm still reeling from the blow; from the confusion. I get scared, because during the whole prospect of learning about myself, figuring things out and my whole reaction towards the joke, the Jester, the one who played the joke on me, learned a little bit more about me. Now, of course, I'm scared that the friendship might be affected. After all, you discover something so shallow about the person. How can you not shy away from something so... I don't know? Vile? But then again, I'm turning mole hills into mountains. It might not be such a big deal. And not everyone is like me, who feels things so quickly and strongly, that something so little is turned into something so huge and big. Some people take things for face value and react accordingly. They know the meaning of restraint and control. They look at things how they are meant to be looked at. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm living my life correctly.

Passion is so important to me; the fuel that runs the engine of my life. I want everything to mean something, even having a few laughs, having fun. It has got to be a bigger part of some process of getting to know somebody or of sharing something significant in the process of a growing friendship. Passion. It is so important to me. It helps me write. It helps me create. It helps me think that I can be significant and important. It drives me to continue creating. It helps me move on and get through the day to day.

This neverending quest for meaning. I don't try to discover what the meaning of life is. I try to make meaning from the life that I lead. And without passion, it seems that there is no meaning to be derived from the life that I lead. At one point, you just want to make your mark, like carving your name on a tree or writing on some desk in a classroom "Wanggo was here."

I was here. And so, I try to leave something behind. I write. I act. I try to leave imprints of myself on people, marking them with a "Wanggo was here" and hoping, wishing that when they hear my name, they get this complete and vivid picture of me. Leaving imprints on people's minds. So that if tomorrow and I die, and I haven't left anything significant of myself on this world, maybe someone out there will keep me treasured in their minds and their hearts.

People sometimes ask, "what is your greatest fear?" My answer is immediate: Anonymity. Who wants to fade away? Disappear in a puff of smoke? Not me. I'm going away blasting, fighting, moving at the speed of light. With the passion in my heart, that's the only way I want to go.