I'm getting excited about the prospect of this upcoming journey around Asia, but to be honest, stress is more prevalent in my life now, than excitement or happiness. I think I'm more terrified of the unknown--of running out of money in some random village in Laos, of being kidnapped in Cambodia and forced into the sex trade, but mostly ... of what the hell I am going to do when I get back to real life in San Francisco. I'm bothered by the term "real life." Why can't traveling be my reality? Why can't it be my version of "real life" and my version of happiness? I think it can be, and I know I need to integrate traveling into all of my realities if I truly want to be happy.
My fears all stem from the same place--of the inponderable things I will be forced to face upon my return to "real life." Am I going to be able to find a writing or editing job? Will I be broke and have to move into my parents house (please, God, not again)? Will I move to New York City, go to grad school, or better yet, find my dream job writing for a magazine on a beach off the coast of Koi Samui? I have no idea. That's the issue, but I guess also the thing that intrigues me the most. The risk, the adrenalin of starting something new. That excitement that mirrors my insecurities and forces me to confront them head on. I always told myself I would never let fear be the reason I didn't follow my dreams. I never know where my heart will lead me, but I always seem to follow it anyways--I believe your heart knows where you need to be even if the practicality of your mind doesn't flow parallel to it.
A part of me (my heart) likes to think I can be as free spirited as a hippie in the Haight during the peace and love movement who is in a perma state of "high on life" (and other substances). The other part of me (my head) thinks I need a little bit more stability. I'm almost twenty-six which really just means I'm almost in my late twenties, which means I'm nearly thirty, which in societies close-minded view, means I need to find myself a husband and reer some babies in the near future. I don't want any of those things. Not now at least. Not even a little, and I'm OK with that. But then why does getting closer to thirty, scare the bejeesus out of me? I suppose when I was sixteen, and twenty-six sounded a million light years away--not to mention ancient--I thought I would be settled by now. Maybe even married, with a steady job. Fortunately, my pre-pubescent images of adulthood were misinformed and way too idyllic for my current reality. Regardless, I still feel like I'm sixteen, living in a twenty-six year-old's body ... thank God.
Once a friend told me I looked at life with rose colored glasses. At the time I was offended, because I thought they were labeling me as naive. Now, I couldn't take it as more of a compliment--but I know as I get older, the rosiness is slowly starting to fade and I don't want to lose it. I know "you only live once" is possibly the most cliche saying in the entire world, but to me, in my present state of being, it holds so much truth to my life. When I told a friend I was going on this trip, the first thing she said to me was "you're living!"From such simplicity I found myself unexpectedly overrun with emotion because I realized the truth in it--I haven't felt this alive in ages.
