I now understand why rich people live in quiet neighborhoods and the masses live in noisy environments. To be rich, one has to think. And a noisy environment isn’t conducive to quality critical thinking that brings progress.
A story should have a beginning, a middle and an end where everything ties up neatly together. But how often in life do mysteries get unraveled ? And if stories must reflect life, shouldn’t they sometimes drift, digress and appear lost without a beginning and a sensible end in view?
That’s why the story I am living and writing seems to have no formula, and I the writer know not where we are headed.
All that I have come to put down on paper today is that I am a hypocrite.
Initially, it sounded humble admitting that. But now I see no humility in that. Just honest truth. At first, it looked like a mirage. Now I see myself for what I am.
Many things I have done and said, and thought, were motivated by some secret desire to be liked by friends, neighbors, acquaintances, listeners, readers or whatever name is invented to take their place. But now, I don’t care. Just wanna be me and let my customer decide if I’m worth buying.
I have reached this point in my tale where the challenge to kill the desire of self validation is set before me. And it seems killing is not the sole task. My victim is beckoning me to eat of him and truly live.
Like the sinner who cast old tools of sin hurriedly at the feet of the cross and suddenly bumps into circumstances that require those same tools to fix, I am in a dilemma. I am wondering if I can live up to the new me stuck in my mind, yearning to be curved into reality when our world has reached that point where to make a living and survive, appearances must be faked, where selfless living is the new name of talents headed to the guillotine.
Diary of a Wanderer 
Leave a comment