An Attempt at Autobiography
It’s always been difficult to look back on my life and sum up a coherent storyline: frustrating, confusing, nigh impossible. It’s not that I’ve lived a grand life, I just might be mentally incapable of looking back with focused eyes and summing it all up in order. Remembering everything feels like sprinting through a bramble maze of memories, and sooner or later I will find myself shackled by a thought with my pen in a hand that refuses to write. Nevertheless, complaining further won’t help me get better at introspection, and a proper autobiography would come in handy for future endeavors, probably. So, let’s get on with it.
The story of my birth and upbringing is a distant tale, almost a myth at this point that perhaps only a handful of people still remember. I’ve been told that I was a very active boy. With burning curiosity and an iron will dead-set on being stubborn I was a different kind of torment for everyone within my vicinity. I’ve also been told by my mother that, despite all the trouble, I was awfully clever and adorable, but I feel like her opinion might be a bit biased.
A few spans of summers crept by and I was still none the wiser — only bigger in size and ego — until one day nine-year-old me had a complete shift of temperament. Even now my parents aren’t certain as to what had caused such an abrupt change, but I pretty much went from being a bullheaded scamp who wanted everything his way to being a quiet little lad, reserved and shy and most of all, socially awkward.
I did eventually learn how to be a companionable, cordial person and how to better handle my social anxieties. The quote “fake it till you make it” can be applied to cultivating your social skills, and it would still hold to be surprisingly true.
What else is there to tell… My days were spent peacefully lazing about in my room. There wasn’t much to be found interesting in the streets of my hometown back then, and Ulaanbaatar was an underwhelming city, in my humble opinion. Books, films and the Internet acted as my magic mirror through which I explored the world.
If someone were to see how the average day in my life played out, they would assume that I was a boring and miserable person at the time, but I can assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. My mind was filled with a thousand wondrous little things. I had more ideas than I had hair on my head and no way of expressing any of them openly, which soon became a very important lesson in philosophy: it doesn’t matter what beautiful thoughts you think you have if you can’t convey them to the world.
It’s hard to tell how much you’ve grown without looking back, yet I know there’s still a long way to go and much things to do, such as learning how to be articulate and present my thoughts in a comprehensive manner, and managing my time efficiently, or overcoming my arch nemesis that is procrastination.
I feel like I’ve been sheltered for the majority of my childhood to early teenage years, and I want to learn to support myself so I can proudly say, “I am independent.” I want to show my mother that I’m alright and that I’m capable of overcoming tough challenges on my own. I want to display my achievements and make my old man swell with pride. I want to set a good example for the young ones, and I want to return home one day knowing I did well and good, with a wealth of knowledge and a lifetime of experience to share.
