Connecting the dots

When I opened the nearest book which happened to be Villette by Charlotte Brontë; this paragraph on page 82 was the first that caught my eyes. Luckily enough it was the third full sentence on the page, which was required for this challenge. It says:  

“Not that true contentment dignified this infatuated resignation: my work had neither charm for my taste, nor hold on my interest, but it seemed to me a great thing to be without heavy anxiety, and relieved from intimate trial: the negation of severe suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two lives- the life of thought and that of reality; and provided the former was nourished with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic joys of fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily bread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter.”

And I thought: how many of us are in this situation? How many are living inadventurous lives, unstirred by impulses of practical ambition? Many, I guess.

We open dream of other vocation, different lives; in some cases, different family and spouses. But not so many are brave enough to chase our dreams for the fear of unknown. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?

But we all envy the Steve Jobs and Richard Branson of this world who dared to defy the norm and go their own way. I know that the road to success isn’t paved with gold and us writers cannot be all J.K. Rowling, and there are those priorities and duties towards what we hold dear, but mostly what stopping us is fear.  Fear of failing, of not making it and finding that we burn the bridges in the process and we cannot go back to what it was. Fear of creating mayhem to otherwise smooth sailing lives we have. Fear of creating troubles that will dig us deeper into the abyss of more uncertainties and financial difficulties. And I understand all these because I am one of you.

I am one of those many who let me chained to the pillar of mediocre, boring, smooth sailing secure (as secure as you can get in this life) existence (and to quote Ms. Brontë directly) with my usual base habit of cowardice I shrink into my sloth-like a snail into a shell, and alleged incapacity and impracticability as a pretext to escape action.

Is it too late to escape? To change course? To throw overboard all that I have worked for all these years just to chase a fantasy? My father will turn in his grave. He who was an avid supporter of secure income and smooth sailing lives. Ironically he never experienced such because he dared to passed away before I could realize everything he envisioned me doing when he married me off to someone I despise.  

All water under the bridge now. Better to move on than to linger in the distant past. Perhaps one of these days I will have the courage to break free and chase those fantasy of mine so, I will not lie there in my death bed regretting all the things I never dare to do…

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