From weaving in and out of career paths, I realized I’ve been having a pre-quarter life crisis for nearly five years.
In between the vicious debauchery and resistance to growth, I brushed off every cliche piece of — what I thought was unrealistic — advice saying to “do what you love” and all that sugarcoated bull. And even though I wasn’t truly sold on the stethoscopes and scrubs, I half-heartedly kept pursuing the goals of another.
Sept. 18, 2012: Whenever I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom, I haven’t even touched Failure’s gray-picket fence yet. The cracked, blackened pavement and dried-out weeds scream to run, but there’s something intriguing about its door, like a gold plated envelope with an engraving that reads “Do not open.”
Flashing rays of light pull me in, and as my attention wanders into an illusory perception of happiness, I become hypnotized before I can even look away. I’m blinded and can’t tell the difference between real and what’s the other one? I’m charmed by fallacy, and the closer I get to #2 Much Hed O’Nism Road, the Gatsby-like mansion fades into a porta-potty-esque shack, which is inevitably what it is — full of shit.
The mesmerizing view flashes one last time into a possessing, airless shadow and swallows the entirety of my being into a solid state of darkness, where I am not only compelled, but lost forever.
After all the late nights doing the same old shit, I finally woke up old… still doing the same old shit.
Despite the fact that it took longer than desired to figure out I’ve just been mindlessly skipping in the wrong direction, now that I’m on the right one, there’s no going back — even if it is the road less traveled.
Follow your darkest dreams.