I dream in colour

One of the less enjoyable parts of my job, is typing up handwritten notes. Sometimes these are workshop notes, written in thick black koki pen on large sheets of newsprint. Sometimes these are meeting notes, scrawled in books or on pieces of paper that invariably get weathered on the way from meeting to desk. This afternoon, I'm typing. First I visited my favourite news sites, then I tidied my desk. I made some tea and made some more and finally, I started.

I've done two forms, which is a start, at least. As I grumbled and daydreamed about having an intern of my own to type up such things for me, I fumed about why me, with my fancy array of degrees should have to do this menial brain-stifling work. I'm not fulfilling my potential, surely I've paid my dues by now? I felt self-righteous for a moment, then felt kind of queasy.

There are millions, literally millions, of people all around the world doing menial, brain-stifling work. Doing work that doesn't recognize their potential. Doing this work from the beginning of their working life to the end. Never reaching the point at which the world acknowledges payment of their dues. Smart people, shiny people. Bright people, with-it people. Because of circumstance and history, they spend every day reaching unfulfillment.

Imagine the frustration. Imagine having fireworks bursting out of every corner of your mind, bouncing round and round and trying to escape until at last, exhausted by defeat, they stop their sparking and dwindle. Imagine the loss you might feel as you watch your fireworks fight to make their way into the light and no one will see them and no one will know them. And then those fireworks give up. And you beg your mind, "stop sparking!" because you know that short of a miracle, the beautiful creations and ideas that dance before you, will never, never ever, be known to the world.

Imagine the anger. You've done nothing wrong. You've failed at nothing. Everything you've started, you've finished. But you live in a world that doesn't allow you the smallest squeeze into the achievement of dreams. You live in a world that denies you education, that denies you opportunity. You stand, ready, with fireworks in your mind, and the world ignores you. Negates you. Or sees you standing empty, with only grey ash to offer.

My afternoon does not come close. My afternoon will pass. Tomorrow I'll be back on my canvas with colours and brushes and bubbles of light, letting my fireworks flow from my mind into the waiting, welcoming world. My boredom, my sighing, my desperate "why me"-ing will last only the duration of the task. For some people it lasts a lifetime.

I wonder how much unrealized potential, and the frustration that festers along with it, exists in the world? Too much, I know that. And it doesn't serve anyone. It doesn't serve those whose fireworks are never seen, and it doesn't serve those who never see them.

Thursday ennui. Best have a cup of tea.