I want to be a pilot. A train driver. A scientist. A footballer.
Pressure, pressure, pressure. From parents, teachers, aunts.
Why is “what I want to be when I grow up” so effin important to you?
Why do you twist my little arm for an answer now?
Why do you pull a face when my response doesn’t match
your twisted vision of success?
I’m only 7 years old. I don’t really think that far. My toys are my world right now.
Most of all I don’t want to be like you. I want to be me.
Look at Jeff and Susan and Betty.
Reason they’re struggling with their jobs is because they believe
they have to succeed in it. Why should they?
Questions rattle in my head. Now I see answers emerging like supernovas.
It’s not what I do but how I want to live my life.
How I can be the creator of my happiness trip?
I want to design a Happiness App.
I want to invent a longevity pill.
I want to harness the power of farts and convert them into energy.
I want to plant a million seeds.
This is my gig. Yes, Mine.