Seeing the towering buildings of the city and living the urban reality has been quite jarring. Just last year, I was wondering when would I ever be able to leave the town I lived my whole life in. I saw myself overseeing other buildings and infrastructures just below while sitting on a swivel chair behind a dark gray desk, my name on a plate in front. The city lights would be visible from my office, and I’ll smile thinking I’ve made it.
The vision of taking flight, to finally prove that I can carry my own weight in the city gave me the strength to push through despite the tough times. The young girl that I was didn’t want to be satisfied with what the province could show her. She wanted more. She knew she deserved more. So her footsteps took me to this point, down this path. Every step that my younger selves took led me here. And frankly, I am afraid that I am starting to fail them.
Every night, I’m left ruminating over when it all started; the doubt, the regrets, the exhaustion. Each time I do, it’s like a hammer continues to drive a nail down my coffin. I wish it was me who’ll be buried inside of it, but no. Somehow, the chest where I’ve put my dearest aspirations morphed into that dark, rigid box, ready to be dropped six feet under anytime soon.
I don’t want anyone to know I’m now in doubt of the dream I have envisioned for myself ever since. I’ve done nothing but hide in the pretense that I am busy, when in all honesty, I am only scared that I’ll slip and end up saying how much I wish I could go home and just go back to how things were before.
I’m tired. And I’m mad that I’m this tired already when I haven’t even begun to fly. A part of me feels that it’s selfish of me to even think about being tired when my parents try their best making ends meet, financing my studies with everything they got. I don’t have the luxury to feel this way, much less entertain the horrid idea of quitting now.
But… God, the temptation to just grovel on my knees and give up, pack my things and go back to where I came from is waiting by my front door. It whispers, persistently asking me to surrender and let it all go. ‘Why are you here if all you’re going to do is mope and be tired? Just go home. It’s going to be easier for everyone if you do that, anyway.’
Hearing those thoughts in my mind only made me feel anger towards myself and towards the world. Why the hell am I even here if I’m not meant to stay? Why would I dream of flying if I’m not meant to soar?
Why give me this opportunity if I do not belong?
I can quit now, say that my best only amounted to an attempt. But is it truly worth it? Loved ones aside, would I be grateful I quit for myself? I don’t think I will be.
After all, where is the glory in that?
I’ll only be tired. I’ll allow myself to feel it. I’ll rest and seek help if need be. But I will do what I have to do, and wait patiently for the time that it will all make sense. I will give what I can for my wings to fully span so I can take flight. Giving up is an option, sure, but not when I still see myself sitting in that chair with the view of the city at night. It’s what I want and deserve, and I’ll be damned if I turn back now that I’m one step closer towards it.