To say that he changed my life is a bit of an understatement. He quite literally grasped hold of it, unconsciously molded it into a more refined form, and set it moving down a new path, my new path, into a wholly new future. He taught me more about human bonds, values, and truths than my fifteen years of life ever had up to that point, through typed words on a page, mere stories and mental blurbs that he had seen fit to share with those who found out where to look. We have never met face to face, yet both know each other as few know us. He is a mystery and a mentor. He is the Notemaker.
I never enjoyed English. Like so many others, the slightest hint of an essay assignment of any sort caused me to groan aloud. Writing was a tedious chore at best, and one that never seemed to have much merit. Sure, I could tell you how to build a snowman, or persuade you to buy me a new puppy, or analyze the rhetoric that a lawyer wielded in a closing argument, or closely read a poem for minute changes in tone that were just so important, but what was the point? There were other pursuits much more worthy of my attention, subjects that granted immediate benefits that I could plainly understand. I was giving attention to just such a subject, browsing an internet forum I frequent, when I skimmed over a new topic. Another member, known as dominic peters, was plugging a blog he had recently started, claiming it was not quite a blog, but instead merely a collection of his mental processes in written form. Literally having nothing better to do, I decided to give it a glance. A phrase greeted my eyes on that front page that I shall not ever forget: “Man has already achieved immortality. It has simply been abused, forgotten, and renamed writing.” Those words alone sparked a feeling in me that had faded long ago, a sense of dreaming romanticism, the belief that really, anything was indeed possible. I continued reading. Essays, short stories, one-liners, dreaded poetry, simplistic blurbs, complex theses; all these were devoured by my eyes and mind, and gradually, my heart. I was amazed, plainly and simply. Public education had never shown me this side of the English language, had never caused me to appreciate it in such a way, had never taught me that it could even be used in such a manner. Hours ticked away, and my eyes grew tired, but still I could not stop reading. As I finally reached his very first entry, it dawned on me. Dom is only a couple of years older than me. I could do it too. I had to do it too. He had messages, many of them, which he wanted to spread to all the world, even if only through one person at a time. He knew that progress would be slow, mired in the stubbornness of people to change, but he pressed on anyway, entering word by impassioned word as they came to mind. Sometimes he expressed frustration at the self-perceived lack of quality in his work, but shrugged it off anyway. Nothing is ever wonderful the first time. Sometimes he would be stumped for a topic, only to take something completely random and transform it into a philosophical masterpiece. All of which he inadvertently passed down to me.
I immediately started my own blog, started writing, of all things, for the fun of it. I woke up from a horribly muted slumber into a bright new world of expression. Mathematics could never change the world, or people’s preconceptions, or a saddened heart into a bright one in quite the same way poetry could. Science could never hope to make one feel the very same as prose. There was at last a way to try and fix all the problems a teenager such as myself felt needed fixing. I had simply never seen it before. I can, and will change the world, one letter at a time.
