I found this photograph while surfing the internet today. Its message hit me hard and fast.
I have always felt imprisoned and I have realized that the source of my frustrations spawn from me and me alone, yet I have never realized, with such clarity and directness, just what traps me.
It makes sense.
I believe I am destined for greatness, and thus each day I spend bored, unaccomplished, and watching the hours tick away I die a little more inside. At the same time, I don’t try as hard as I can or should. I rely excessively on faith, on the vague belief that I will accomplish something one day, that I will not fail.
Thus I am trapped by the hope of escape, and merely hoping. I am trapped by a wish that overwhelms me so much that it has caused me to do nothing but wish.
I believe I am better than other people, I believe I am pretty and intelligent and talented, and I believe I’m lucky. More importantly I believe in myself. As a result, every time I am compared to another it causes me great pain. Jealousy is what it is. I believe I have been robbed of a destiny: of Brown, Yale, or some other fantasy-like elitest liberal arts college completely out of my world of unrefined public education and living at the whim of the government. Of success of privilege, of friends in high places, of a future. And every day I look at the world around me: every day I look into the eyes of the failures, outcasts, the could-have-beens, the should-have-beens, the never-wills that surround me everyday, everywhere, and I go insane. The familiarity in their eyes squeezes my heart so hard I want to wash my hands of this world and start over. I have this terrible fear of twenty, of the numerical reminder that a fifth of my life has passed and I have yet to accomplish anything worthy of my destiny… what I believe is my destiny.
I am imprisoned in the delusion of my own mind. What an elitest idiot I am.
A I believe help will come one day. I keep waiting for miracles, waiting for someone or something to change me. It’s the fantasies of stories, real or fiction. I gravitate towards eccentric people, I push the edge of boundaries and logic in a desperate reach for anything that could inspire me, change me, give me the epiphany I need to finally, finally, accomplish something.
When I sit down and enumerate all the negative influences and stress factors that surround me, I want to run away. I have been running away every since I was a child. I remember all the times I ran out of my grandmother’s house in the evening, power and freedom washing over me as my small frame filtered through the moonlit streets undisturbed, with a wounded yet stubbornly sturdy heart that refuses to relent. A selfish, misguided, and naive heart that still beats in me today.
I would visit all of my favorite places, feeling sentimental yet not at all artistic. I would rarely think of anything of significance, only wallowing in my feeling of entrapment and the impossibility of escape. Even then I was pushing and pulling against what I believed were invisible chains. But nothing chained me down but myself.
Truthfully speaking, I am a mess. And I have always believed I needed some form of external release. Someone to dig and dig until I’ve spilled it all, someone to analyze me and understand me from an objective perspective, and finally undo all the dead knots tied up inside my heart.
But that is the opposite of what I actually need.
So, the point of this post is: this is the mentality with which I am leaving my world.
I will stop imprisoning myself.
Yes, I am running away again. This time for an entire year, across the globe. I still feel an overwhelming sense of dread when I think of coming home for Christmas, but I’ll survive. No, that’s not right. I always believe I will survive, and that desperate need to prove myself right causes me deeper and deeper into my cage.
No, I will break down. I will have another existential crisis, I will write a long-winded blog post about it, and I will run away again. This time, hopefully, a better person. And maybe every time I take off running again I will have a little less baggage.
Yet little by little I have realized what is more important than undoing all the knots of the pas: I must keep the future straight.
It will be difficult.
No, I only believe it will be difficult.
Ha, it’ll be easy.