i might be making that up...

A Deceptive Destiny

Clearly, I was meant to be a songwriter.

This thought hit Carl so suddenly one night that he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. It seemed so obvious.

It was late – well past midnight – and Carl lay awake, unable to sleep, thanks to all the lovely sentiments, poetic thoughts, and musical lines that kept dancing through his head. These were golden! Finally, he couldn't contain himself any longer. He grabbed the notebook from his nightstand and let his ideas burst onto the page, jotting down every word and phrase that came into his head.

Carl wrote until his mind was as numb as his hand. His ideas ranged from sad country ballads mourning his loss of sleep; to hopelessly romantic love songs that caused even him to tear up; to vengeful rock songs about his middle school teachers. He even started working on a rap about how his heart had been broken when his kitten died when he was fifteen. Only then, drained of all his ideas, could he finally relax enough to snuggle into a cozy sleep.

The next morning, Carl lunged out of bed, eager to finish his lyrics and begin composing the melodies. At this rate, he was sure he would be able to record by the end of the week. Dreams of fame and recognition, spotlight, and worldwide tours crowded his thoughts, making it hard to focus. Carl retrieved his notebook and began flipping through his ideas from the night before.

Somehow, they weren't as good as he remembered.

He stared at the pages, shocked. These were Carl's award-winning lyrics? His ticket to fame and fortune? These words would be lucky to see a paper shredder, and be put out of their misery.

Carl took a deep breath and began to reevaluate his late night's inspiration. Maybe some of it was salvageable. Maybe if he tweaked a few words here and rearranged a couple of phrases there ... take out that cheesy rhyme ... adjust that rhythm.

There. That had potential. This could still work.

He sat back smugly. See? He had already written and rewritten several songs within only about eight hours. Clearly, this was his destiny. Carl had real talent.

Soon, however, he had to go to his "day job" at an undisclosed fast food joint. He didn't have time to even start creating melodies for his music before he had to report for his afternoon shift. His only consolation as he trudged out the door was that his days at this hideous job were now numbered. At last, after 37 years, Carl had found his true calling.

Carl returned home that evening, exhausted and so drenched with grease that he might as well have been a French fry. But he perked up when he remembered what waited for him upstairs – his career!

He found his notebook and sat at his old piano. Dust rose and then fluttered to the ground as Carl lifted the cover, revealing the ancient ivory and black fingers that had sat lifeless for 30 years.

It was not until that point that it dawned on Carl that he didn't know how to play the piano. Or any other instrument, for that matter. Or how to read music. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't really even sing.

Hmm ... this could be harder than I originally anticipated, Carl thought.

After sitting there in silence for almost an hour and not daring to even touch the keys, Carl gave up in silent frustration. He crumpled up his numerous pages of lyrics that he had earlier thought were so full of genius, and he threw them in the trash. His career as a famous songwriter had ended abruptly.

Then, as Carl walked downstairs to fix dinner, he tripped on the staircase and started tumbling down. Convinced that his death was imminent, his unfulfilled life flashed before his eyes. Carl panicked – he couldn't die yet! He hadn't had a chance to live!

But surprisingly, Carl didn't die. What had started as dangerous, random tumbling quickly evolved into a series of advanced gymnastic exercises, skills so incredibly refined that Carl didn't even know he possessed them. His body automatically formed cartwheels, somersaults, and one-handed flips, and Carl was pretty sure that at one point he even walked on the wall. As if that wasn't impressive enough, Carl landed on his feet at the bottom of the stairs.

Clearly, I was meant to be an acrobat.