An Aesthete’s Ode
I’ve talked with numerous students over the years. There are the students who set out to achieve and achieve; those that do not set out to achieve and succeed in not achieving; and those that set out to achieve but underachieve.
It’s the latter class that I have a particular affinity for, as I pity the achievers: what pleasure is life if each desire is satiated? – infinite donuts
But the underachievers – ah, the underachievers, the ones who have lofty goals but fail to achieve them or have great potential but fail to live up to it – oh, those I love. What can be more lovely that never achieving the prize? It will forever be beyond reach, never changing, always
How I love the underachievers. They, perhaps, are closer than anyone to the true form of beauty – because they never have it to discover its flaws. It will remain perfect forever.
How I love the underachievers. Always desiring, always moving, roaming the sallow plains in search of a prey that cannot be found:
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedJohn Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.