Last night I went to this swanky jazz club in the heart of Madrid. There, I experienced the lyrical genius of two Spanish senoritas, the rhythmical charisma of three young tap dancers and the soul of a committed bunch of musicians performing to the tempo of their fervency. They all seemed to be doing just what they ought. I watched. I envied. They exuded happiness I couldn't understand.
There they were, a collection of talented strangers, fulfilling their purpose. Not saving the world, but exuding an aura that touched me, making me question the things I care about. I talk. And I write. Then I wonder how much I act. Here are these people leaving an imprint (on me, maybe even the world in the grand scheme of things) doing what they do, and I'm here taking notes.
I think sometimes we seek in others what we can't deliver because we yearn for the talent we wish we had, anything that says I'm great at what I do. I ask myself where this talent exists in my life, and all I see is staggering nothingness.
On a scale of one to twenty something, twenty something being mission accomplished, I'd say I'm a solid six for my ambition. This makes me wonder if I should be a little less concerned with saving the world. Maybe I just need to do me.
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