Coming back home from Sweden has brought something back into my life that I thought maybe traveling abroad and learning a bit more about myself would cure: stress. Apparently, going abroad, being away from everything I know and love changed something inside me. It made me realize what I want, who I want to be and how I want to live my life. Or at least it's made things a little more clear for me. And of course when you clarify one thing, something else becomes more opaque. Go figure. How frustrating!
How damned infuriating.
I, dear friends, am incredibly antsy. I hate staying in one place for too long, hate doing the same thing for too many days. And going off on my 'first big adventure' (as cheesy as that sounds) doesn't do much to help. Fortunately, or unfortunately, before I left, I started to get my life worked out. Declared my major, quit the lab that I hated, basically set my life up so that I can have everything that I wanted in my academic and professional lives.
Why doesn't that make me happy? And why the FUCK does that make me skitterish?
Nine days out of ten I wake up ready to quit school, start up work as a barista until I can afford to buy a plane ticket back to Europe and then start up work as a baker in a delicious little shop. The worst part about it?? After this whole Sweden extravaganza, I can totally see myself doing it. What's even worse, I can see myself loving that life. It's a simple life, a life that I abhor and fight from having here back home every day and yet it's so damned appealing? Why??? Is it because it is disposable, because it's easily dropped so I can run off to some other land, meet new people and start another adventure fresh again?
Probably. Dammit.
This is the problem with dreaming people. Nothing is ever good enough. Once one dream starts coming true, your commitment issues kick in and -wham!- you find yourself running after another dream. The fact that the consequence of living your life means that everyday you learn a little bit of what you really want, who you actually are, is so much less than helpful. It seems that the more I learn about myself, the less I want what I've just worked my ass off for. And of course I'm gun-ho about everything I do, so when I've worked my ass off for something, I've practically tattooed it on my ass and signed my life off to whatever I'm interested in. Which means it's a bitch to get out of and a helluva lot messy. Good thing I never cared for tidiness.
J.M. Barrie wrote, "Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it."
Problem is, I don't know what I want anymore.
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