June 2, 2014
Because I am tired of behaving like a small fry and not having had the guts to move past my own inhibitions. Because the symbolism is so strong, I could not make myself overlook my frailties and what stepping outside the train and looking for the next destination meant. It is my own Catcher in the Rye tale, a sense of growing up that meant not only having had to outgrow my tendencies to remain in limbo, but a modification of a series of idealogies that can only be summed up with: that I am too weak to change years and years of what I know and what I have sworn to believe. It takes guts to argue with yourself. And it took me 8 months to retrieve the tube map of London's Undergound that I have stashed in the farthest regions of my cabinet, before circumstances have ingrained a deliberate understanding on my consciousness that if I dare set out and be what I truly want to be, I should place supreme confidence in my ability to act on calculated risks and defy the crippling notion that always being comfortable is uncomfortable. I have no more degrees to finish, but I do not like to think I am done for good. I am on my own to figure the propensity of what my life can become without the dictations of the established paradigms of success. Freedom is a hazy concept, meant to be directed to what we truly, truly yearn for. It is in my fervent expectation that hopefully one day, I can rightfully rock the chair smoking the Cuban cigar of fulfillment and meaningfulness.
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