There was a subtle shift in the air this year, a faint whisper of change, of saying goodbye, of reinvention. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but I noticed, or rather something in me noticed. Finally the fear of staying trumps the fear of leaving.
I’ve always had this urge to pack up and leave … leave sans any inkling of where exactly I’d end up. The promise of the unknown, the freedom of living a life frowned upon by society, it all seems like some pleasant dream lingering even after you’ve awakened. I often jokingly blame this on my non-existent gypsy roots, or my ‘wandering’ spirit, aptly coined by a friend of mine – all in an effort to explain why I don’t seem to fit the mould everybody else took so well to.
As I expectantly, and rather impatiently plan my future, I’m nervous at the prospect of failure, but I suspect a few moons from now, holding a glass of my fave vino, I’d much rather rant about how I leapt and fell to the earth face first, than explain why I clutched to the cliff.