My mother was dead worried about my sister who works as a cabin crew because she incurs 60-80 working hours per week but my schwester nonchalantly replied, “Ok lang ma. Gusto ko naman yung ginagawa ko eh”. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but think of calling in sick after an 8-hour shift. As the adage goes, “Love makes all things easy”.
A few days ago, while reading the mistress of the universe’s latest blog post, the line “All we ever really wanted to do was write short stories” stuck like glue. Not because all she ever wanted to do was to write but simply because of the fact that she knew from the beginning what she really wanted to do.
I read about the struggles of some friends who decided to pursue medicine this year. It’s a trivial thing they said. Luck and stock knowledge are not enough to let you through and you have to bid adieu to sleep and social life, among other sacrifices. But in the end, they add, “all for the price of my dream” (or something to that effect).
I envy these people. They know what they’d like to spend the remainder of their lives doing and they pursue that with what I’d like to call “passion”. Not necessarily burning but enough of it to make them strong amid the tiredness and pain and sleepless nights and failures that their “dreams” cost.
I, on one hand, am clueless (or maybe just too much of a coward). Just like what my “About Me” page says, I like too many things at the same intensity. But that one thing I like with a burning passion, that one thing I like that’s heavier than all the others combined, I still have to find.
What do I want? Sure, I want to be rich but what else?
A few nights ago my father told me some of his observations. According to him, I appear “goal-less” and not motivated. I don’t have any idea of the direction I want to go. It’s as if I have no concrete plans and I’m not yet mature (when I should already be) because all I think about are excursions and escapes and lakwatsa (I was forcing him to let me go to Callao Caves in Penafrancia, Cagayan alone). And I sat there unable to rebut any of his accusations.
Maybe the problem is my being a good listener. Good enough that people likened me with a sponge. I can absorb anything. And this is both a gift and a curse. Ever since I was born, too many people have put their hopes on me. Too many people have prophesized on what I will become, on what I should become. Too many people have injected sometimes un-welcomed thoughts in my head that I no longer know which ones are voices of others and which are originally mine.
Bottom line is, I am one confused being. I don’t know which are my dreams and which are the dreams others have for me. I cannot differentiate if I want this because I really want this or because someone told me that I’m supposed to (or it’s best for me to) want it.
In Frank Zappa’s words, “If you end up with a boring miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it”.
Come on Rani, think.