Sin palabras

Ég á í tilvistarkreppu. Ég held ég fái svona í kring um alþjóðlegar stórhátíðir og þvíumlíkt. Horfði á setningarathöfn Ólympíuleikanna og íslenska hjartað mitt tók aðeins stærri slög þegar Björk var að syngja. Hún er svöl.

Which brings me to my point (and, apparently, English as well) beginning with some lines owned by Eddie Izzard:
What do you want to do? Tell me. Tell me your dreams.
“I wanna be a space astronaut and go to outer space and discover things that no one’s ever discovered.”
Look, you’re British so scale it down a bit.
“Alright, I wanna work in a shoe shop and discover shoes that no one’s ever discovered, right in the back of the shop.”
Look, you’re British so scale it down a bit.
“Alright I wanna work in a sewer. And pile it on the top of my head, come to the surface and sell myself to an art gallery...”

Or something like that. What I want is to aspire to something. The urge to be somebody has suddenly swelled up and consumed me for what I think will be only momentarily but who knows. I want to be known, appeal to the masses, yet, I have no means of doing so. This is not to say that I am without talents. I can manage on four to six languages, depending on the situation, I can sing, act, write and draw, among many other things but these are things hundreds, thousands of others do better than I. What, short of an extremely lucky break in something I can’t, as of yet, imagine, could be my leverage?

I don’t know. I feel that I will diminish and eventually vanish in to the oceans of many, drifting between islands, frothing at their shores. Because right now, I don’t see a future, just discomfort in a vast normality. I am extremely lacking in something I cannot grasp and it’s eating away at me. I hope sleep will rectify this unbalance (my equilibrium is off, Haraldson ;)...). I’m off.

...

--Drekafluga--