Long ago, I was in a play called “Coffee and Robots,” in which I played a barista who believed himself to be on the cusp of greatness.
I don’t recall the character’s name or any of his other dialogue; only his assertion that he was on the cusp of greatness.
When I first read the play, I did not know what that meant. I’m still not sure that I do.
But now, looking at a promotion within the coffee shop that employs me and knowing that my writing will see publication, I’m thinking about that character again.
I don’t remember his ambitions, but I know my own and I know that I can’t define one published novella and a coffee house promotion as ‘greatness.’
But it’s a step and it’s change, and I wasn’t sure how much I’d see of that since graduation.
In college, change is the rule. You see a great deal of different people, shove your brain full of new things, all so that you will eventually become someone different from yourself.
It’s very fast-paced and exciting, and you’re changing so often it’s pretty easy to forget how you started and how you’d like to end. There’s a set end-date too, and after that you’ll be an adult.
After that, any change has to be a choice. Should I take the job, should we move, should we buy the house, the car? There’s no schedule for personal growth anymore. It’s kinda wild.
But this feels a little different. I have forewarning that life will change. In a week, I’ll be in charge of some things. In a couple years or less, I’ll be a published author. I won’t be this me anymore.
All change means death. This me will die. It happens a lot, sometimes in big ways, sometimes in small ways, but, if we’re doing it right, each day we’ll kill some old part of ourselves. Usually it’s ignorance falling to some new facts, or old habits hunted by new ideas, but it’s not every day that a whole self is on its way out.
I don’t know if I’ll miss it. At least there’s time to say goodbye.