ambition

I realize it is rather contradictory, my disposition that is. I am lacking in ambition, maybe, though not entirely. I am full of tenacity, possibly, though it is often misplaced.

I was once posed a question in the sort of setting where questions like that should not be asked. It may have been by a distant relative balancing a paper plate at Christmas, or by a stranger at a house party, both of us pleasantly drunk and speaking with the sort of misplaced sincerity that only seems reasonable when we’re well past the legal limit, or by someone I had only just met and would likely never see again.

“If you could do anything, what would it be? What is it you want most in life?”

I can not help but stare blankly for a moment. My reluctance to answer was not because I found the question too personal, nor because I was uncertain of my answer. I was simply stunned that it was delivered in a manner that made it seem profound, philosophical even.

I have not even been on Earth twenty years, and how many times have I been asked this question? By unfamiliar relatives in crowded living rooms. During awkward icebreakers, seated cross-legged on the cold floor of a high school classroom. By teachers, counselors, classmates, and strangers who wanted to feel as though they were peering into the blueprint of my soul.

I have responded to this question countless times, so many that my answer is ready to be quick-fired at any given moment. I hastily state something respectable, masking my face with complacency. Heads nod in approval, and it is always a lie. I am sure I am not the only liar. Everyone thickly sugarcoats their words and censors their passions. It is polite in that way.

But for some odd reason, on certain occasions, I feel especially compelled to give an honest answer.

If I could have anything, it would be this.

I want to devote my life to understanding the universe. Not in the practical sense, not for a stable career or a tasteful office with framed diplomas, but because I am bewitched by the possibility that the world is far stranger and more beautiful than any of us can comprehend. I want to spend my years chasing truths that existed long before I was born and will remain long after I am gone. I want a formula in my name, a speech in Stockholm. I want to join the small and peculiar fraternity of men and women who looked at the universe with enough patience and stubbornness that it surrendered some of its secrets.

This is embarrassing to admit. It sounds vain, and perhaps it is. But I suspect most ambition is vanity dressed in more respectable clothing.

I came out of the womb with an insatiable thirst to be significant, and in turn, to be adored for whatever significance I managed to manufacture. Before I had language for it, the desire was already hardwired into my tiny head, and I have worked ceaselessly for it ever since.

If I had the capacity, I would configure myself into a pristine being, one worthy of admiration from all whose paths I cross. It is unfortunate that praise has always felt vaguely unsettling despite my addiction to it. Everyone wants to feel needed. My vitality demands it.

While I am in pursuit of understanding the cosmos, I feel ambition burn me up, and even to strangers in passing, I must prove that I am deserving of love.

Much like the question itself, this sentiment is not so profound either.

So I smile, shrug with practiced modesty, and say, “I’d like to travel the world.”