I am scare. There is a tornado outside this airport café that makes me feel like if I step outside just for a second, I would be locked into it for the rest of my life. Say, in a normal world, where existentialism and individuality mean going to college and having a good job, where the biggest of all ambition is to climb the corporate ladder and truest happiness of life is to be with the loved ones, then I am far from normal. I have forgotten normalcy many years ago when stability left my family.
The idea is that life starts at conception and ends at death, whatever memories made in between and left behind are whatever left of us. I just want to know what will be left of me. I want to know that I mean something. I want lives to change just because I exist. And I do not want to be in the tornado and follow a circular motion of life. I do not want to think that when it is about to be over, when my life is about to ceased to exist, and I am to be dropped on the ground, I will learn that I was so scared in the process that I did nothing but closing my eye and hoping for the best. I want to be able to open my eyes and fight to the last breath. I want to dream that tornado to be a waterspout, that even in the fiercest of moments, I enjoy the prettiest of settings, where fishes are swimming on the edge of the vortex, and on the other side of the water wall, the scenario is distorted in every possible way. I want to know that even in the impossible dream, I am unique.
But I am nineteen now; dream time is over. Sooner or later I will have to walk out of this airport and face the monster. And no matters how much I try to delay, no matters how much I wish the ground to be a body of water, the tornado is always there, dry as a bone. Like many, I think many, want many, and dream even many more, but I do little. Partly because I do not know what to do; what there is to do when I cannot even find a shelter of my own, when I am the lightest of all feathers and most humble of mind? Strength is just another dream; to be able to hang on something even in scariest of weather and know that I am safe, to be able to know that loved ones are protected against toughest storms. But I do not feel safe, and loved ones are not protected. I am weak, and my mother is compensating. It is all because I am not doing enough. How much is enough really, to matter, to change lives, to have meaning, and simply to protect and to serve? I cannot tell but I do realize that figuring it all out at once is impossible. I just need a little more time and idea.
Although I know for a fact that I am not strong enough, I have no any other choice but to get out there and face the monster. Chances are I will lose, and it will consume me, but I would like to push my luck. I need to know that in the future, at the last moment, on my bed, I will be glad I gave it my best shot. Hiding is obviously no longer an option. Now, with nothing to lose, I have the strength and bravery of a desperate man. The battle of my life is about to be unfolded and I still have no idea what to do, but it is too late now because it is the last call for the flight back to Seattle.
The idea is that life starts at conception and ends at death, whatever memories made in between and left behind are whatever left of us. I just want to know what will be left of me. I want to know that I mean something. I want lives to change just because I exist. And I do not want to be in the tornado and follow a circular motion of life. I do not want to think that when it is about to be over, when my life is about to ceased to exist, and I am to be dropped on the ground, I will learn that I was so scared in the process that I did nothing but closing my eye and hoping for the best. I want to be able to open my eyes and fight to the last breath. I want to dream that tornado to be a waterspout, that even in the fiercest of moments, I enjoy the prettiest of settings, where fishes are swimming on the edge of the vortex, and on the other side of the water wall, the scenario is distorted in every possible way. I want to know that even in the impossible dream, I am unique.
But I am nineteen now; dream time is over. Sooner or later I will have to walk out of this airport and face the monster. And no matters how much I try to delay, no matters how much I wish the ground to be a body of water, the tornado is always there, dry as a bone. Like many, I think many, want many, and dream even many more, but I do little. Partly because I do not know what to do; what there is to do when I cannot even find a shelter of my own, when I am the lightest of all feathers and most humble of mind? Strength is just another dream; to be able to hang on something even in scariest of weather and know that I am safe, to be able to know that loved ones are protected against toughest storms. But I do not feel safe, and loved ones are not protected. I am weak, and my mother is compensating. It is all because I am not doing enough. How much is enough really, to matter, to change lives, to have meaning, and simply to protect and to serve? I cannot tell but I do realize that figuring it all out at once is impossible. I just need a little more time and idea.
Although I know for a fact that I am not strong enough, I have no any other choice but to get out there and face the monster. Chances are I will lose, and it will consume me, but I would like to push my luck. I need to know that in the future, at the last moment, on my bed, I will be glad I gave it my best shot. Hiding is obviously no longer an option. Now, with nothing to lose, I have the strength and bravery of a desperate man. The battle of my life is about to be unfolded and I still have no idea what to do, but it is too late now because it is the last call for the flight back to Seattle.