Poem: “Dedication” vs “drive”

Dedication is consistently committing continually.
Dedication is quiet.
Simply determined, without question. It’s my life, and I choose it every day.
Dedication is renewed.
Appreciation of what I have, and doing what is necessary to attend to it.
Dedication is old, and proud.
It’s the result of hard work, and the certainty of more.
It’s like love.

Drive is gotta get it, gotta have it.
Drive is loud. Revved up.
Drive is “watch me”. Drive is not… yet.
Blood pumping through my veins.
Drive is young, and gotta grab this opportunity and not waste it.
*Proving* myself. Needing to.
It’s like winning someone over.

Dedication is soft and sweet and calm.
Providing safety and stability.
Relaxing into a flow state, and knowing what usually works. And if it’s not working, dedication is trying something else. Because I would do anything, naturally.
Dedication is direction and a pension. A safety net.
It’s respectful space.
Dedication is “I chose this already”. If I don’t have this job, dedication is showing you how I would do it.
Take it or leave it.
Dedication is a stroll on the beach and a kiss in the moonlight.
Dedication is fluffy towels and waking up to the smell of brewed coffee I prepared earlier.
Dedication is holding your hand.

Drive is motivation.
On a high. Pushing through. Meeting that deadline.
Drive is flash, and brash. Drive is passion.
I am driven to get this. If I don’t have this job, I am driven to convince you I can do it. I have all the skills.
Drive is a demonstrative show. Romance. Brilliance.
Drive has to brake, at some point.
Drive is fire, and drive is what impresses you.
Drive is getting drunk on champagne and dancing on the beach. Not having a care in the world, as long as I have you.
Did you want coffee? Driveis a Grande macchiato, to keep going through the night.
We’ll have a sexy shower after, but there’s no fluffy towels ready.
Drive is the best fling you ever had.

One Day by David Nicholls; amazing

Seriously. One Day by David Nicholls got to me. one_day_big
I’ve cried, smiled, felt my heart burst, romantically despaired, love-hated London and questioned the point of my own 26-27 years (especially when I got to that point). It described everything with the bittersweet aptness and post-party despair of free-falling after University. That freedom tainted by that sobering realisation of how much you rely on, and need to face, the very things and people and insecurities you left behind. Far behind, in some cases. But you’re back, and life goes on at an abrupt, galloping, yearly pace, and the book catapults through the snapshot dilemmas of growing up.
 
The runaway stream of words about the finest, direst details caught in my throat, often. It’s a mirror; an affirmation for any confused 20-something reader that we’re not alone. You are certainly not. The two graduates couldn’t be more different, although they cross into different stages at mismatched points and it’s an uplifting tragedy; a contradiction in terms. I was angry at the author for doing this to them. Doing what? Pounding their souls with the gritty realities of life out of control. The unexpected twists and turns that no one can foresee despite the fact we are told stories about them all the time. 
 
And as the book develops, rapidly, their lives speed up, and the author speeds up, and there’s a moment in reading wide-eyed that I wondered if this was rushed. Whether the author deliberately sped up to convey a sense of life reeling out of control – or, just to make the point. That time, and books, run out.
 
While reading this rather life-defining book I started writing emails in the style of Emma, as if I had suddenly found (identified with) that voice. 
 
And there’s the classic writerly point made alongside the protagonist’s journey through book publishing that writing is good and worth pursuing and works out in the long run, even if just to make you a better and more compassionate person with the relationships that make you grow, regardless of material and literary success. Except, she is also self-deprecating and insecure and finds herself adrift with disappointingly superficial characters in The Arts – and you can’t help wonder if Dexter is like that, and you just want to shake Emma and show her that she is refreshing and sweet and honest and you need her to know her solid intelligent mind soars through these pages. And Dexter… oh, Dexter. You can understand, truly, that people who are lucky, successful and incredibly good looking are, well, in pain. 
 
Places and paths are revisited and retrod with such honest flaws, such sincerity, and such intelligence. We all feel these things. But especially after University and some definition that graduates are supposed to be successful and they find themselves falling just as much as anyone else, until we learn, somehow, messily, to do some things better and all of a sudden our age changes things and we want different things and how is life ever going to work out, for real? The answer provided is realistic; it works out but only in ways we don’t expect. And these ways can delight us, if we have the courage to change absolutely everything when we just can’t take it any more.
 
And, perhaps, live a little more.
I cried. Many times. (And if you know why, don’t spoil it for everyone else.)