When I was very young , I wrote up a story. It was about a man who was chained to his desk in the chains of routine… and slowly died from it. The bleakest thing I could think of was doing the same thing day in and day out , my life a series of paychecks and bills.
But I think I did not look closely at him. Yes, he was chained to a suburban life that he did not want. But he had people who loved him, and he knew he belonged somewhere.
I found the idea of waking up and knowing where I am and this is where I am going to stay…forever, terrifying. What of the discovery of the mountains that lay beyond? I grew scared that if I stayed in one place, I would not appreciate diversity, and the tastes of new spices brimming on my tongue.
What would my life had been like had my parents decided to not move to El Salvador in the middle of a war? What would I have been if I did not have my beliefs?
Would I know the feel of the icy wind on the bridges of the Thames River? Would i know the smell of lightning and earth ? Would I have dived into an ocean of rainbows of cultures and races and sensations?
Would that had made me completely different?
But that man , he knows where he belongs and who he is. Sometimes I envy that man , for true chains are the c hains of the prison of self , and that is not limited to any specific place