If you, the reader, care or perhaps are curious about me, the writer.
When I began in an earlier part of this year, I wrote down four simple words and pasted it upon the hanging noticeboard in my bedroom – What’s next? What’s next? I would come face-to-face with these words everyday and I’d wonder it too: What is next?
Hungry and impatient to unravel the future, this was preceded by scribbling onto the first page of my paper journal a note which stated that ‘the mind and body will collectively and exhaustively attempt another excursion throughout the tumultuous health and disorder of a calendar year.’ To measure time in the basis of years is perhaps not the best way to track down progress but, inasmuch as I was expectant and hoping for change, 2015 has been rife of it nonetheless. In color, in seeming favor, in chances.
It occurred to me that I am reaching my quarter-of-a-century mark sooner than expected. Gone are the days of dressing up in uniform and welcoming the feel of assembly halls with chalky white shoes come Monday morning, even if those days don’t feel like they took place too long ago. This made way instead to a calmer transition — into adulthood, which proved to be stabler, easier to decipher, still difficult, but less grating on the nerves. Monday mornings turned instead into battling traffic jams, trying to fit in as much work into the last few minutes of every fleeting moment, forgoing meals and toilet breaks and regretting not ironing that shirt for work the night before. Yet still, age had never confronted me before, I always identified myself unfailingly as a youth. Developing, growing, fumbling, prospering, be it in quiet revolt, in anger, or in sheer eagerness for the world and its timely offers. Always, always, a youth at heart. But this year felt different, I stopped identifying myself so much as such and felt an urgency to do something.
The message that I am trying to convey here, if there is a message at all, is that as farfetched as it sounds, this is it: if love is a sense of belonging, then there is nothing I’d rather crawl back towards than to the familiarity of writing. If I am unidentifiable in origin from the design of my name or face or this system, language is the body I’d choose to savor and inquire and savor again.
To cut to the chase — I’ve resigned from my job in pursuit of being a (more serious, more dedicated, more ruthless) writer. Listen to this notion, as romantic as any, so idealistic and full of promise that it terrifies me. I’ve said this several times before but I don’t know if this action was warranted out of bravery or stupidity, but rather a need to stay true to character. My previous job in the PR industry wasn’t always easy, but it was a job which I had gotten well-acquainted with and, I’d like to believe, a job which I wasn’t so bad at either. Nevertheless, it was a steadiness which I saw necessary to break.
And so the applications for grad school were sent in, and the risks paid off better than initially anticipated. I got accepted into all four schools I applied for. The biggest struggle now is perhaps the most intimidating struggle, which is the struggle of securing funding. But this is a risk and risks are wont to come with no guarantee. I am taking it still, out of courage or audacity or what have you. Whether it will be successful or not is unknown. These are my doubts, drawbacks and fears that I’m sharing with you. You don’t need to dim the lights for me to calculate and scrutinize where it might or might not fail, I have never been a blind optimist. Yet I’ve decided I will fall into this foray and the vast possibilities it offers too. The hope I have for things are not tall, grounded, or always healthy but my dreams are not yet colorless ghosts.
If it fails, I will adapt and attempt to land on my feet again.
Either way it goes, I wish you, if you are reading this, all the best in your own individual struggle and journey, whatever it may involve or it may be — Godspeed.
And that is all for now by way of non-fiction.