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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1279215-Intrepid-Thoughts
Rated: E · Essay · Opinion · #1279215
Thoughts beneath the burning paper sheets.
I think I have discovered life before I could afford its passion.
No, not the life that we live everyday as we go on to set ourselves into the open with our shinny shoes and blaring mobile phones. It is not the life that we oftentimes described as good or exciting or humdrum to the bones. Or perhaps the life out of living when we max out our credit cards or burned our paychecks from spending too much into things that we don’t need. And it’s not even close to the life we dreamt when we are still too young to decide for our own and all we had were the dreams and aspirations that were inspired from reading too much novels or watching one too many feel good movies.
What I meant are the hands-on, mouthful, straight-no-chaser human involvement. The gratifying feeling of being conquered, controlled and completed by your own soul, your own heart and your own mind. The fulfillment of dreams. The discovery of love. The opening of Pandora’s box, finding only hope and none of the bad crap that has come with it.

But then just when I am beginning to like my handcrafted, superficial, toiled-up, generically cynical and materialistically driven existence, I have fallen out of place upon the realization that there is more to life than that. So I experimented with a lot of things until such time that I became tired and wasted yet still no answers to be found. Days, months and years passed by like the parting of the evening clouds but at the end of that tunnel there is still no flickering light that awaits me. So I started to dream again. Luscious dreams in full vivid colors with background music playing to the soundtrack of my life. Still I feel restless and empty. Sometimes I want to believe that I have become complacent. No longer feeling the need to get right what’s wrong. Often settling for what’s already been judged or what has been left unjudged. It’s safe. It’s easy. It is there. But the question remains, is it fulfilling?

I bought a big bike, always testing it if I can make the wind wave past my back. But at 5th gear clocking 120km/hr I can still say that this is not yet what life is all about. So I gave up the profound stupidity of challenging the wind and just settle for a breezy 60km/hr. Sure those buses and cars passes me by in no time but I am at peace now. No point in chasing or racing from it all because at every pit stop I am still on the same place where I left off.

I make intelligent, statistically peppered comments about religion, morals, life and love to make myself seem interesting or interested, as though these broad headings covers the essence of  my individuality and make me worth investing on. Everything is up for sale, but what am I selling? I can’t even grasp the intricacies of who I am. There’s that feeling in the morning of not wanting to get up. Isn’t there something wrong when we are a generation, which categorically hates Monday? What has Monday ever done except come around every time Sunday leaves us? We are, in the same breath, too hard and too soft on ourselves. We take what’s easy and make it difficult. We feign complexity and depth and truth because we can’t find the real thing. Life has become this ugly rhythm of just surviving.

There was a time when I fell in love to an old house. It was a house where I spent my childhood days until such time that I had to part with it to carve my footprints in the land of what dreams may come. There in that house I used to sit on the azotea admiring the full moon and the falling stars with only the rustling of the leaves and the whistling of the wind as my background music. But then those days came to an end. As I grew up to become wiser and better, I began to lose my ability to admire the moon when it was full and the stars when they fell.  Even the music of the rustling of leaves or the howling of the wind became pale and faraway whispers of mysterious sounds that were being masked by dismal noises.
But tell me, what am I doing writing about fallen stars and the moon or the wind and rustling leaves when I live an urbanized life, work for the man and can no longer differentiate a good sleep from a power nap?
It’s a crazy life. So I guess this is where I say…
I’ll see you all at the next stop, wherever that may be.
© Copyright 2007 Romulus Rueda (wormulus at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1279215-Intrepid-Thoughts