"once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary"

I recently had a conversation with God. Well, actually, it was pretty one-sided. I made him listen as I vented about my biggest fear: being average. Alone in my room, somewhere around 1 am, probably some really good music playing, it went something like this:

Dear God, I want to be someone to somebody. I want to make a difference. I want to be remembered. I want to accomplish something great. I want to make my mark on this world, to better it, to contribute to it. I want to live a full life -- with big and small moments. And I want a way to remember it all. I want to stop forlornly gazing at my dreams stored away on a dusty shelf. I want them active, alive. I want a story to tell; I want people to read my story; I want it to be worth reading. I want to give of myself and to somehow help others, even while I don't have much to offer. I want a pure heart and a sound mind. I want to create; I want to empower; I want to inspire; I want to explore. And I want to know that it all mattered.

Yes, I was frustrated, and I was anxious. I needed to be put back in my place. Thank you, Edgar Allan Poe.

Edgar Allan Poe - brilliant poet, brilliant mind, brilliant literature. But Poe was an orphan...poor and aimless...a gambler, estranged from his foster father, in debt, lived off one short story to the next - and spent nearly all that money on alcohol. He died alone and was buried in an unmarked grave. His tragic and nomadic life seemed to have been lived in vain. His accomplishments were unappreciated and his talent was essentially disregarded. Considering his circumstances, could he have imagined his potential? His impact? His ability? His influence? How could he have ever known that he would become one of America's most beloved and fascinating writers? How could he have known, as he drowned his hopelessness in whiskey, that his stories would become classics, that he would be read in schools, and that critics would dissect and marvel over his written words? Despite his life of heartbreak and useless attempts at "big breaks," he eventually made it to his dream, he made a difference, he transformed literature...even if he wasn't able to witness it within his lifetime.

He lived. He died. And, somehow, he managed to leave a legacy.

I want the same thing.

I am 20 years old.

I don't need to change the world yet, I just need to live in it.

"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night" - Poe