The American Dream is to have success in all one's endeavors, to live a comfortable life and create one for one's family after oneself. Ambition and the ability to do hard work are necessary qualities to achieve the American Dream. In our country, opportunities are not available to people of any specific race, religion, class, or ethnicity; opportunities are available to anybody who has the courage to seize them.
Sometimes people are afraid to strive for something because failure or bad outcomes are a big possibility when trying something new. People become predisposed to having a normal life; meaning get through college, get a job in an office with a salary, get married and have kids, and drive a Mazda. The American Dream is what happens after fears are tossed aside to do something daring like starting a business out of your home or showing your painting to the manager at an art gallery.
Word count: 154 (I'm supposed to use less than 250 words so if there's anything else you want to hear my opinion on....)
Earlier today, I posted a blog about a poem I need to read. I really like this one, I actually just stumbled upon it. I picked this one:
And Yet The Books
by Czeslaw Milosz
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
by Czeslaw Milosz
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
What do you think about it?