first days..

the first day of the rest of my life...I cant even remember the number of times i said that to myself repeating it like a mantra, this is it, this is the first day of the rest of my life, i change, things are going to change, the first day, the first day, for the rest of my life.... as a veteran of 'first days of the rest of your life', i can say this, its the best day ever. you are not morally responsible for your past, your future is just beginning, and things can only go upwards.

but tomorrow comes, and suddenly its the second day of the rest of your life, and you need to start living the damn life. maybe time for another first day of the rest of your life, but of course its too soon, a major calamity hasnt occured yet... and so the second day is frustrating, you are tentative, eager to try out your new wings of faith, scared that you arent ready to fly yet, and you end up holed up in a corner, with your knees drawn up, with plans and improvements, the soul searching behind, and you know you are equipped to face it, and then it hits home..oh my God, time is catching up, and i haven't started to live yet...

how ironic, we are always waiting to begin life, to "start living" i'm waiting for this life, my life, the life i'm meant to live, to start..
today was the second day of the second semester of my second year at university. the lap of learning. the seat's uncomfortable. i'm busy being educated, and as fast as i can so that i can leave and start living my life. i was stopped in my tracks today, by a tall white man. he stood in front of me in a plush carpeted room, with soft peachy lights, boardroom tables, and swivelling chairs.
he stood in front of me, and 20 of my peers, and told us to stop learning and get educated.
the slightly narcisisstic, greying man in his fifties, who swears like a gushing sewer, who paces up and down the room, and looks you in the eye, and laughs at you, and those around you, who speaks of emotions, and language, and words, of living, and feeling, and life, who believes the guy who runs the bookstore is a bastard, who tells you to look up the history of the word fuck, who is fond of his own voiice, who sneers and smirks, who holds a Ph.D in a subject he loves, who is eccentric, who is a teacher, a leader, an instructor, is also the man who will decide whether we are good enough for his course.
he stands and tells us, that if we dont stop and enjoy the act of learning, savour the moments when are minds are inspired, expanded, and where new ideas born then our university experience is worthless. and he is right, but we are inherently practical, and we plan for a future of financial freedom, of stability, of money. lots of money. and of course, my economics professor tells me time is money. and so i, like thousands before me, strategise a way out.

today i felt like staying longer, i felt like stopping, and breathing, and blocking out all the voices of sensibility, i put my hands up against my ears and block out the static. the sound if silence. i've been running so fast things are blurring. who knows, my elusive life might even be along the scenic route. it might be time to take the long way home.