Four months. More than four months.
It wasn’t until four months after I made what
could have been the biggest moment of my life that I began writing again. My
mind has his world of his own, he writes freely when he pleases but never when
I command him to do so.
I have always thought that moving and starting
a new life would reignite my urge to render the thoughts in my mind into
playful words, but only after dozens of weeks, at a moment when I’m weary and
tired and poisoned from devouring fast food totally disregarding the mindful
effort to remain healthy the past few months, just when my brain is momentarily
dead that my thoughts began to function.
I was staring at a glass of tasteless tea
when I suddenly had a flashback of my first view outside the window while the
airplane was landing. A couple of hours before that moment, I could vividly see
an image of myself onerously pulling my trolleys at the airport, consciously
preventing my tears from dwindling down as I kiss my old folks before I boarded
my flight. I have a love and hate relationship with airports but this is by far
my most grueling airport stint.
How far have I really gone from that moment?
Not that far to be honest.
But it doesn’t really matter how far you’ve
left behind, what matters is how close you are to your goal. I’ve been in so
many occasions, detoured painfully, when all I ever wanted was to get to the
top and get a three sixty view of how magnificent this world really is. But as
cliché as it may sound, the best route isn’t always the straight line ahead,
the curves and long rides allow us to remember and understand why we dream the
dream.
Looking back at the time when my seat belt was
fastened aboard that calm flight, strangely different from the turbulence I was
feeling inside, I remember telling myself to always trust the process. Today,
four months after, I continue to trust the process until I finally understand
why that process had to be the way.
06/12/19
baby
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