For as long as I can remember, I've always had this nagging desire to be successful.  Be it penning a novel, publishing a board game, developing a video game, or managing a popular internet site, I have a craving for success.  In what medium is largely irrelevant.  It is the recognition that comes with success which is most palatable.


I'm not sure where this urge came from, if some byproduct of my birth.  I was an under achiever in high school, not applying myself as one normally should.  In this regard, my parents often chided me for not living up to my potential or making the most of my abilities.  I could care less what they thought, but that word would linger in my deeper recesses.  Potential.  It wasn't until I graduated from college after five years and ended up with a job that required little more than a high school diploma, that its utterance returned to my ears.

What is potential?  Or more specifically, what is my potential?  There are many sleepless nights where I wish I could return to the day I was born and read the instruction manual or look at the back of the packaging to find out what my "potential" is or would be.  How do I know when I'm "living up" to it?  Will doing so make me feel "successful"?  These philosophical drippings continue to drizzle my windshield, and I am left with little but the cloth rag of "let's not think about it" to clear the road ahead.  It is so disappointing to feel disappointing, particularly in regards to her.

Green is my favorite color, perhaps not surprisingly so by how often I turn to its shades when hearing speak of others' successes.  Thankfully, I'm young enough that I'll live long after this quarter-life crisis, though in what form has yet to be perceived.