Twenty-Three
Today, I’m going to write my 23 year-old self a letter. Why? Because that is five years from now, which is exactly how much time I predict that I will need to start having success in my career.
Hello,
I’m scared. You know that. You probably still are. I hope that my expectations for what you and your success are like don’t overwhelm you. I know that looking back, for you, five years maybe wasn’t enough time to get everything going.
But why do I want to temper my expectations for how you’re doing? You’re not real. At least not yet. I’m still building you. You’ll be made of jokes and ideas and experiences that people will be clamoring for. You’ll be constructed out of a confidence in the thoughts and feelings you write and convey in your work. Your hair will be woven with string made of an understanding of how to tell a story. Your skin will be reinforced with the ability to accept failure. Your eyes will be hand-blown glass, clear enough to see through the lies your brain tells you. You’re also six foot five with an eight pack.
You are a doll, basically, and I have to believe you’ll be more Barbie than Raggedy Ann. I need something to keep me going.
Love,
The Real Elias
P.S.
Is Kanye’s new album still good? I feel like I’m only freaking out about it because it just happened. I’m honestly scared to listen to it again.
