Shane

I began writing poetry some seventeen years ago. I've been hooked on literature for what seems like all my life. I have a degree in English with concentrations in British Literature and Creative Writing and a minor in theatre. Since college, I've been working as an actor in WV, NC, DC, and NY.
Sometimes I feel displaced, as though I were born in the wrong generation. I think books, perhaps, weigh too heavily on my reality. There're specific genres I have an affinity for (outside of poetry) and everytime I read a book of my preferred genre, my brain literally seems to go out of my head into whatever world I'm reading about. When completing the book, I stare wistfully from my mind's eye wanting nothing more than to be part of a different time.
Fantasy novels, the Romantacists, Medieval lit, literature of the Beat Generation, H.S. Thompson's accounts and exploits of the 60s and 70s, and stories (including plays) involving valor, nobility, honor, and the stereotype of true-love.
But I often wonder, is it that I REALLY want to be a part of those eras, or am I more infatuated with the idea of the eras and idea(l)s.
Actual truths:
A majority of the Beat Generation (including my beloved Kerouac) suffered from some addiction or other, be it alcohol, methadrine, LSD, A, crystal, you name it. Several lived spans of their life in some form of degredation, feeling a self-imposed sense of alienation that would cause prolonged sensations of depression, abandonment, and the desire to whither to a grease stain on the lips of Uncle Sam in hopes to give him dysentery. Many died before living to full age expectancy. This same notion can fully apply to the cavortings of HS Thompson. He, too, suffered the same demise.
OK, so a world full of mythical creatures, animals, and magic never existed. I know the idea to be swept away to Middle Earth is a child's fantasy. But kudos for escapism. Yep, I am a true dork. One thing I miss most in life, is sitting around a table, playing Dungeon & Dragons with my two best friends. Bless those years, R.P. and Jeff.
Probable truths:
To live in the days yore, I'd probably be no greater than I am now. A peasant living the life of everyone else, scraping by to do nothing more than survive and pay the tax-collector.
And the other idea(l)s are just that: a form of fantasy. The nobility, honor, love that is scrawled in the lines of a book or poetry are just another form of escapism and I can't help but continue to ask myself WHY? Why can't there be a triumphant return of a prodigal son, claiming his namesake, and soaring to a name carved of immortality? Why can't there be a noble stand against an army of impossibility for the sake of 'my people'. Why can't there be a type of love that withstands any and all things despite passages of time, trials, or life itself.
Why can't fantasy, in some sense, become reality?
This is not to say I want to become a meth addict living in squallor as a protest against a changing culture. Nor would I fling rationale to the trenches and lose myself in the fantasies I've painted in my mind.
Perhaps I'm still harping on a vanity issue--an egocentric attitude that makes me not want to go quietly into that good night. The longer I'm here in Greensboro, the more I want to rise above this state of being and become something great. I long to be on stage again. I long for the fantastical: to make a name for myself and my family, make a difference in my world for the sake of my people, experience a love that's a fairy-tale, and never, under any circumstance be satisfied with mediocrity. Each passing day makes me restless to begin some journey I feel destined to take and each day I become more impatient.