Oftentimes, one’s liberty from a certain illusion makes the turning point in one’s life. It is such freedom that jostles a person into the venture of the unknown although boundless or limitless happiness. But then we still chooses the usual, the status-quo, the accustomed…because reason and reality kicks in. All the while, occurrences might have freed us from the binding illusions but pathways were never provided for our escape.
I have innumerable false impressions with certain specifics in my entirety. When I was a bit young, I always dreamt of becoming a writer but ended up becoming a nurse, who for a fact works as someone who makes wounded hearts unwounded and battered spirits “un-battered”. I am becoming a person who tried so much to hide the truth that I too have a wounded heart and battered spirit inside. I am a hypocrite, in its radical form. I tried my exceedingly best to be unselfish. Countless times, I have soothed crying mothers who have lost their precious children and comforted hurting babies that life is beyond their knowledge of physical pain. I did things to undo things that sometimes should not be undone. I was a soldier that defied the intricateness of being vulnerable. I was an orphan who did not succumb to the rules of life and death. I became the rebel—a delinquent whose heart was crushed and shaken several times that it finally chooses not to thrive and beat once more. I am but a pretentious.
What should have been if I became a writer? A writer who is enclosed in a space but has experienced spreading his wings in its fleeting motion, shifting from it’s to and fro, from now and beyond. There is nothing extravagant in becoming a writer except for the liberty to express unexpressed emotions of joy, disappointments and anger, define abstract entities such as fear and create a chimera filled with no rules and boundaries. I yearn for becoming a writer, whose passion in life is passion itself. A writer tries to do things that seem “undo-able”.: falling in love with a stranger, counting the sand in a shoreline and resuscitating flickering dreams. But, in becoming a writer, one does not veer the possibilities of becoming a fraud especially if that magnifies one’s vulnerability.
The discovery of an entirely new pursuit is profound but the noblest part would be defying the negatives and taking risks. Whether you wanted to be a bungee jumper, a clown, a pantomime enthusiast, a marine biologist or just a plain writer, there’s nothing equivocal to the sheer happiness from the liberation itself.
