On My Own Again
Free, free, free at last.
I moved out. I am living in a one bedroom apartment, in the most densely populated area in Canada, known as St. James Town. The neighbourhood is quite familiar to me, as I inhabited these ground four years ago, before student loans forced me home. While the area is sometimes referred to as “crack town", I don’t mind the ghetto factor. This is what I can afford right now, and I am living on my own; the master of my own domain.
I recall, once at a family dinner, one cousin asking another cousin, what his five year plan was. The question gave me internal shudders. At the time, I had already changed my major twice, and dodged any sort of commitment. The idea of committing to a life plan was simply unfeasible; I wanted to live in the here-and-know.
As thirty became a number that would soon be my age, I realized that something had to give. I was whoring myself to temp agencies, and refused to become that forty year-old who worked the same job as me, with no hope for progress.
Two years ago, I devised myself three goals. (1) To pay off my student loans, (2) To get a job that paid me at least $40,000, and (3) To move out on my own again. I am filled with pride and joy with myself, for having achieved these goals. They might not be the loftiest of aspirations, but that is what I desperately wanted at that time – and I worked my ass off, and did it in the time frame I had allocated.
I still walk around with a giddy feeling in my apartment. I’ll be dressed only in my gitch, with a cigarette in hand, admiring my handy work in interior decorating, and think, “I did this!” Having achieved my current goals, I have a new set of goals, primarily to become a published writer.
If anything I feel living where I do, will aid me enormously in such an endeavor. As I walk around my building, ride the elevator, or stare out from my balcony, I feel that I have somehow wandered into my childhood as an adult. I stare at the Pakistani mother with the shalwar-kameez she clearly sewed herself, with three children in tow all wearing label free clothes probably purchased at Wal-mart. I can’t help but stare at them, as I feel that is my past being brought to life in-front of me. With approximately a thousand people living in my building, it is simply teaming with life, and I feel that if I try hard enough I can pluck tales from the air.
I can’t afford therapy. But, this time, with me living on my own again, being reflective of my past in my writing will be the best possible healing (and, hopefully let me cash in on the desi love-in that is going on in the literary world).
(Yes, I said I discontinued this blog. But, hey, its my blog, and if I choose to update it every once and awhile, that is my prerogative.)
I moved out. I am living in a one bedroom apartment, in the most densely populated area in Canada, known as St. James Town. The neighbourhood is quite familiar to me, as I inhabited these ground four years ago, before student loans forced me home. While the area is sometimes referred to as “crack town", I don’t mind the ghetto factor. This is what I can afford right now, and I am living on my own; the master of my own domain.
I recall, once at a family dinner, one cousin asking another cousin, what his five year plan was. The question gave me internal shudders. At the time, I had already changed my major twice, and dodged any sort of commitment. The idea of committing to a life plan was simply unfeasible; I wanted to live in the here-and-know.
As thirty became a number that would soon be my age, I realized that something had to give. I was whoring myself to temp agencies, and refused to become that forty year-old who worked the same job as me, with no hope for progress.
Two years ago, I devised myself three goals. (1) To pay off my student loans, (2) To get a job that paid me at least $40,000, and (3) To move out on my own again. I am filled with pride and joy with myself, for having achieved these goals. They might not be the loftiest of aspirations, but that is what I desperately wanted at that time – and I worked my ass off, and did it in the time frame I had allocated.
I still walk around with a giddy feeling in my apartment. I’ll be dressed only in my gitch, with a cigarette in hand, admiring my handy work in interior decorating, and think, “I did this!” Having achieved my current goals, I have a new set of goals, primarily to become a published writer.
If anything I feel living where I do, will aid me enormously in such an endeavor. As I walk around my building, ride the elevator, or stare out from my balcony, I feel that I have somehow wandered into my childhood as an adult. I stare at the Pakistani mother with the shalwar-kameez she clearly sewed herself, with three children in tow all wearing label free clothes probably purchased at Wal-mart. I can’t help but stare at them, as I feel that is my past being brought to life in-front of me. With approximately a thousand people living in my building, it is simply teaming with life, and I feel that if I try hard enough I can pluck tales from the air.
I can’t afford therapy. But, this time, with me living on my own again, being reflective of my past in my writing will be the best possible healing (and, hopefully let me cash in on the desi love-in that is going on in the literary world).
(Yes, I said I discontinued this blog. But, hey, its my blog, and if I choose to update it every once and awhile, that is my prerogative.)
posted by dutty brown boi at
10:14 PM
2 Comments:
Dutty, I'm so madly happy for you. What a feeling! When's the housewarming? :-)
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