Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Greetings, from nowhere.

The second greeting to a loved one in France within a matter of months and it has driven me to madness and up way passed my bedtime. I’ve sent my regards to friends all around the world and all it’s done is remind me that I’m stuck in the same place I’ve been my entire life. The same commute, the same traffic, the same office. When do I get to be the one being greeted from America and told ‘I hope you’re having a great time!’ and ‘come home soon!’? And at what point in life did I get bolted to the ground? Sometimes you just want to chuck life the deuces and go all eat-pray-love on that bitch but then reality kicks in. Whoever said “you write your own destiny” obviously never bought a car and was definitely an only child. Right now the only person writing my destiny goes by the name of Robert Qureshi and he writes it twice a month on a piece of paper that gets deposited into my perpetually low bank account. You'd think if you had nothing then you'd have nothing to lose, but who knew the most miniscule responsibilities could pretty much dictate your entire existence? You make all these little investments in yourself as you grow up, thinking you’re building a life of your own, then sometimes they become the entire reason your life is going nowhere. Are these dues that some of us just have to pay? Or did I make a lot of bad investments?

I want to be the brooding, tormented writer- shacked up in my dingy apartment littered with discarded drafts and cigarette butts, rocking a mean 5 o’clock shadow and matted hair, slaving away at my typewriter (totally old school but way more fitting of the aesthetic I’m going for). Or the trendy, free-spirited artist taking pictures around the city or traveling the world in search of a muse. Yet the responsible adult in me still wants to make sure I can watch over my siblings and pay my car note and receive decent benefits. Can those personas ever co-exist? Probably not because the brooding writer never has a car…

It makes me wonder if I’ve forever “written my destiny” as a working stiff stuck at a crummy job. Am I destined to have the highlight of my month be a new stack of post-its? Will my only recurring feat be cleaning out my inbox? And will this stupid blog be the only source I ever write for? Or is there still a chance and a way I can trade a life of time clocks and conference calls for one a bit more passionate? Will I always be the one receiving the postcards? Or will I ever get to write them?