I live away from my family. I decided to live on my own when I started going to grad school. It's a choice made out of convenience: as I have the option to stay away from people who will track every move that I make. On my own I can do what I want, explore the world as if there's no tomorrow. In this liberating journey, life bombards me with trials I can't almost take. That no matter how much I'm wishing to solve my errors I will always back to the place where I attain the deepest slumber.
I never shared any of my recent problems to mom or anyone but coming home gives me the numbness of real life. But I just feel that everytime I go home, I sometimes feel that my mom always has the urge to ask me what I am going through, but I sense that she always backs off. Most of the time it's difficult to see her witnessing me stepping off the tricycle then hugging her, kissing her, giving her some small talks but then things end there. I wish I can share to her all the things that I've been through, but I admire her for respecting my personal space. It felt so good being trusted by someone who really loves me.
I've always been mystified by that word: trust. The most enigmatic concept probably isn't love but trust. And no matter how hard I crack my head how people trust me for who I am, I won't decipher it. And everytime I felt suspicious on people, especially with the person whom I love, I think I should always look on how my mom established her trust on me... No matter how many times I failed her, I hurt her or took her for granted, she always trusted that I can do good, despite the shortcomings. And I always recall the day when mom and dad supported my decision to live on my own because they believe that I can finally stand up on my own.
But sometimes, I just feel that my knees are shaking so bad, I can't stand tall the same manner I boast to them I can do things my way.
I will always look back at my first fifteen years of my life guarded through four corners of words and commandments. I despised the boredom of life back then. And when I finally got what I wanted, the freedom, I started questioning myself, which is better a life of cumulative pain or a life of pure comfort?
Going home is escapism from the harshness of life I chose. Or after all these words that I wasted on this box, probably I just have to accept the fact that I also miss them.
I never shared any of my recent problems to mom or anyone but coming home gives me the numbness of real life. But I just feel that everytime I go home, I sometimes feel that my mom always has the urge to ask me what I am going through, but I sense that she always backs off. Most of the time it's difficult to see her witnessing me stepping off the tricycle then hugging her, kissing her, giving her some small talks but then things end there. I wish I can share to her all the things that I've been through, but I admire her for respecting my personal space. It felt so good being trusted by someone who really loves me.
I've always been mystified by that word: trust. The most enigmatic concept probably isn't love but trust. And no matter how hard I crack my head how people trust me for who I am, I won't decipher it. And everytime I felt suspicious on people, especially with the person whom I love, I think I should always look on how my mom established her trust on me... No matter how many times I failed her, I hurt her or took her for granted, she always trusted that I can do good, despite the shortcomings. And I always recall the day when mom and dad supported my decision to live on my own because they believe that I can finally stand up on my own.
But sometimes, I just feel that my knees are shaking so bad, I can't stand tall the same manner I boast to them I can do things my way.
I will always look back at my first fifteen years of my life guarded through four corners of words and commandments. I despised the boredom of life back then. And when I finally got what I wanted, the freedom, I started questioning myself, which is better a life of cumulative pain or a life of pure comfort?
Going home is escapism from the harshness of life I chose. Or after all these words that I wasted on this box, probably I just have to accept the fact that I also miss them.
posted by David at 1:38 AM
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