I’m going to turn another year older tomorrow. Yup, Marocharim turns 23 on the Fourth of July. That itself is a pretty good reason to take a good, long look on the 22 years you already led, and the road that lies ahead. That itself is a pretty good reason to look at exactly where you are, and what steps you’ll take next.
Twenty-three is anything but a crossroads; at my age, I already have set a course for my life, and to a certain extent, I’m making it happen. Among my many ambitions and dreams, I always wanted to be a writer. If anything, I never imagined myself to be famous, much less rich. My life is still rather Spartan: not in the sense of 300, but living within what I can of the pittance I get for my pay. As you claw your way to a “destiny” that seems to be within your reach, you find yourself clawing for your cellphone, texting your parents, and asking them if they can spot you a thousand to tide yourself over until the next payday.
There’s rent to pay, lunch to eat, and painkillers to numb the gunshot-like pain at the base of your skull shooting down your left arm after a day’s worth of writing. Or as my friends call it half-jokingly, my “source of inspiration.”
I guess that if there’s anything I learned the past year, it’s that I really can’t separate myself from what I do. Granted that I don’t make a lot of money and pester my parents too often for a small loan, but I am in the extremely enviable position of making a living out of my passion: writing. I’ve been somewhere holding a pen, lugging a typewriter case, or tapping away at a computer keyboard for most of my life that I really don’t know what else I can do. I no longer think of writing as a means of making a living, as much as I do think of it as living. As life itself. As happiness… as sensibility, as meaning.
Everytime I get up from my bed and take the long commute to the office, I sometimes question that thought; if I pursued a different direction in life more than one that has me popping pills and smoking cigarettes like crazy. I sometimes shed tears, wondering if I ever failed at yet another decision in life just because I felt like looking at things through sentences and phrases. Those tears dry up quickly, knowing how many differences I make with just a few thoughts, with some sentences, and doing things without the wax. From there, no matter what road I will take, I’ll still end up somewhere: somewhere I’m destined to be.
Where that would be, I do not know. I am absolutely uncertain about the steps I’ll take. But I am, however, certain that one road will lead to another. All this is meaningful. All this is happiness.
All this can be written about.
All this… is life.