After a bottle of superb white wine and some reflective conversation, I yet again find myself feeling a familiar unease about my future. Not in the sense that I’m fearing for my financial life or that I am standing at the door of any major decisions, but more that there is a lack of major decisions…
I have the distinct feeling that by now I probably just sound like I have gone off the reservation but I will make a valiant effort to explain myself. (And then hope I am not alone in feeling this way)
I am scared.
There, I admit it. I’m afraid that I’m not living. Okay, and I know that in some parts of the world this fear of mine is considered a luxury, and that some large millions of people just plainly fear for their actual lives every day, be it a war, or famine, genocide, cholera or aids. But this is my own personal war.
In me lives an adventurer, with a lust for hedonistic self discovery, every fibre of my being I pines after freedom. To be the female version of captain Jack Sparrow, see what there is to see and be everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
But then reality comes in a white envelope around the seventeenth of every month, and reminds me of my car, and cards. And it just kills me! I’m not even married yet, I don’t even have kids, but it just feels like in in this tiny little gray box that has air holes just so you can peek at what you are missing, smell the horizon, but never quite touch it.
Further more, I never talk about it, I try really hard to forget about my dreams, and then on warm summer nights like these, I just go “Screw this! Who am I not to dream and feel and want?!”
The dull ache of “tried to be forgotten” teen hood dreams, the archaeologist, the game ranger lion vet, the writer, food critic, yacht sailing star navigator and more recently the glamorous “all of the above” wealthy philanthropist and UN ambassador slash best friend of Angelina Jolie.
In my every day life (well dull version of what my life should be) I manage to suppress these wild urges to be simply spectacular, but from time to time all it takes is another person to remind me, to unlock within me quite simply – myself.
People need people to catalyze life within each other. Which while I’m on this tangent, leads me to love. How much of each kind of love lies within every person? Does our capacity to love another romantically wear thin after your heart has been broken a sufficient amount of times? I think it does. That however doesn’t mean you’ll end up loveless, but I do believe one would need to find a person that can love enough for two.
I want to experience full blown feeling again, like putting your feet in the water at Llandudno on a cold winter morning I never thought I would want for pain as much as joy just to be sure I am really still alive.
Someone hand me lightning rod!