Paulo Coelho's Aleph, p.11
wanderlust |ˈwändərˌləst | :
(n) a strong desire to travel
What do you do when you're in my position? How do you deal with yourself, the you who has lived within you forever, but was forced to remain voiceless because life demands the other you to rise and grow? What happens when that version of you wants to come out; urges you to give them one more chance, before life corrupts them and they die? I kind of hate myself for having two, or perhaps even more, souls living underneath. Everyone's been there, I'm sure, and they survived, so maybe I would too. But there's always an unspoken story of how they got through with it; how they shut out that other part of them that doesn't go harmoniously with the reality, and how they settled down and make peace with their life now. I wonder if some people never really make peace with that part of them. What happens then? Do they go mad and crazy? Which one will I be? The one who make peace, or the one who go crazy?
Before today, before... every single thing that made up what seems to be my current life now, I had a dream. It's not as noble as Martin Luther King's, but my dream was my dream. It was mine. It has nothing to do with yours, King's, or anybody else. In my dream, I was a wanderer. I traveled across Southeast Asia until I found India, and I found my way to Eastern Europe and then the Mediterranean land, and I roamed Africa, found Ghana, saw Madagascar, until a ship made me a voyage back home. I always long to be somewhere far from home, because we will never appreciate the value of our home if we never leave it. I wanna meet people. I wanna know what it feels like to have nothing to lose apart from my own body. I wanna see this world we all call home. I wanna see the untold stories, the unsung heroes, and the humanity left in this despair we call life. I wanna see the truth. Even when I know for sure that there is never an absolute truth in the world. And from there, I would decide what to make of this world: better, or worse.
But here I am today. Clutching a trophy everyone would call a victory, would sing a song for, but not finding it worth all the joy. I should be grateful; and I am. I really am. But there's a part in me wishing that I would nurture that part of me who dared to dream. There's a part of me, knowing that what I have is so much, and it's more than what I've always wanted, and God knows if I really deserve this. I'm happy. I like what I have. I am yet to see how much I'd grow to love it. (I'm quiet sure I will) But that one part of me, is silently screaming for something else. They want one more chance. Just one. One more chance, that I know I can't afford. They almost hate me now. So I kind of hate myself, too.
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