I want to be a grasshopper. At least I want to be seen as a
grasshopper—a blithe spirit who sings and plays all day, creating
beautiful ephemera. I want to be free from worrying about a
less-than-comfortable future. I want to carpe that diem.
Being an ant, by contrast, is about as sexy as wearing white leather sneakers.
No ambitious person wants to look in the mirror and see a plodder—a
toiling, plotting, planning laborer. It just doesn't fit with a
self-image that is artistic, creative, and muse-worthy. Ants are the
factory workers of the critter world. Most of us don't dream about doing
time on an assembly line.
But I have come to understand that I am more antlike than
grasshopperesque. While that realization is bad for a romantic sense of
my own life, it's good for getting things done. Or, perhaps, it's the
only way I am able to live and work.
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