[ 2 min read ]
If you questioned and then rejected this bullshit (although very common!) idea that there is this so called “defining time” in your life — a stage in your life which is most important, as it determines your future success, you are already successful human being. That’s what I think.
Objectively there is no such stage. It is only in our heads, this conviction that such stage exists. It is there, because it had been put there!
If you accepted this idea that there is such time, and you’ve squandered it (or something, circumstances, prevented you from doing the things which, according to those who believe in this nonsense, should be done in that time) then you will believe that it’s too late or that your chances are small or that it’s not worth it.
To hell with this clichéd bullshit!
I didn’t buy into this nonsense, although the society worked really hard in order to convince me that such stage exists.
This “defining time” nonsense has been around a long time. George Orwell wrote about it in his long autobiographical essay titled “Such, Such Were the Joys”. In it Orwell describes his experiences between the ages of eight and thirteen, in the years before and during World War I (from September 1911 to December 1916), as a pupil at the St Cyprian’s preparatory school, in the seaside town of Eastbourne, in Sussex. But I bet there were others who heard this nonsense much earlier.
Here’s what Orwell wrote:
“Very early it was impressed upon me that I had no chance of a decent future unless I won a scholarship at a public school. Either I won my scholarship, or I must leave school at fourteen and become, in Sambo’s favourite phrase “a little office boy at forty pounds a year.” In my circumstances it was natural that I should believe this. Indeed, it was universally taken for granted at St. Cyprian’s that unless you went to a “good” public school (and only about fifteen schools came under this heading) you were ruined for life. It is not easy to convey to a grown-up person the sense of strain, of nerving oneself for some terrible, all-deciding combat, as the date of the examination crept nearer — eleven years old, twelve years old, then thirteen, the fatal year itself!
Over a period of about two years, I do not think there was ever a day when “the exam,” as I called it, was quite out of my waking thoughts.
I hated Sambo and Flip, with a sort of shamefaced, remorseful hatred, but it did not occur to me to doubt their judgement. When they told me that I must either win a public-school scholarship or become an office-boy at fourteen, I believed that those were the unavoidable alternatives before me.”