Who Are We Kidding?

Of the many losses that we experience in our lives, the loss that we mourn the most is the loss of ourselves. At least once in our lives, we dream of making a difference, if not changing the world. For the lucky ones, the decisions that they make are based on fulfilling their dreams. Others (who are luckier, I suppose), on the other hand, base their decisions on their adult sense of responsibility, that is, what is practical.

The course that I took in college is not really what many would consider as practical. A major in creative writing? Who does that? Rich people? Students who don’t have much of a choice because it’s the only course where there are available slots?  I based my decision on what I thought I might be able to do well from the not-so-many choices that I had. When people asked me what I was going to do with my degree, I told them the practical and convenient answer, which was, I was going to take up law. At the back of my mind, however, I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to write stories that people would love to read and that would perhaps help them figure out certain things about themselves. But who was I kidding?

I jumped from one job to another without caring about the consequences. My rule was that if I wasn’t happy with what I was doing, I should run away as soon and as fast as I can. I thought I was that brave although others would think of it as cowardice. None of my previous jobs gave me a sense of fulfillment. I thought they did not help me grow. So I sought to find work abroad, which landed me to a teaching job at a university in a neighboring country. As usual, I had so many issues with my job. I’ve thought of leaving the university as soon as I could a hundred times. I thought that this was not what I wanted. I thought I had become so boring and I could not relate to what my friends were into anymore. I was slowly losing myself, slowly forgetting what I really wanted to do.

Then a situation where I have to be responsible for the people I care about sets in. A couple of years ago, the only thing that I felt responsible for was myself, of what made me happy and satisfied. Now, it’s a different story. I thought I could stay in my prison cell for a little longer and cry without any specific reason once in a while. Or maybe there is a specific reason why I cry after all. Maybe I cry for losing that part of myself that I love. There’s not much I can do about it now because I have to consider the most responsible thing to do at the moment.

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