Having just finished reading Steinbeck's East of Eden my thoughts seem to meander on the character “Tom Hamilton.” More or less, Tom is portrayed as one who struggles with and within himself; he teeters on the edge of greatness and of great mediocrity, either of which frightens and shoos him into a hiding place within himself. What I enjoy about Tom is Steinbeck’s portrayal of how one may be ‘great’, how one can grasp that potential, but how one is often too afraid to; whether it’s the work that goes into greatness, or the greatness itself, most of us will abscond the pursuit for fear of it. Halfway through the novel Tom ends up killing himself. Timshel. I often find myself questioning what it means to be great. I find that that is often all I do, question. I imagine there’s an almost inherent odium for mediocrity, yet we’re so easily beguiled by it and this is an enormously frightening thing; we carelessly spend our precious time. Though not quite squandering, it’s as if we eat and neglect to taste, or just fuck to placate a base sense. Creature comforts, a cerebral anesthetic? Ah, timshel, may I? Will I?