Wednesday, August 26, 2009

do not go gently

I have decided to give my foolhardy youth another chance, to join the throng of directionless twentysomethings chasing their shadows. I will stand and be accountable for my rashness, my boldness in the face of certain defeat. Now is the hour of our bad decisions!

You cannot make these choices overnight. I find myself still haunted by the words of my long lost high school English teacher—not to suffer so greatly under the pangs of uncertainty. And so I have chosen to extend my sentence. Not to run, not to flee—as is my impulse, but to sit in the mire in which landed my boat and let the mud squish between my toes for one more year. To mix metaphors, I've buttered my toast and now I'm going to lie in it.

One year. In which to make some pretty big calls. About people, places, wheres and whats and whos and hows. A final year for New York City to prove itself to me or lose me forever. A final year to sharpen my teeth against the grindstone (there I go again with the metaphors) and figure out—for once and for all—what I want to be when I grow up. The rest, I'm sure, will follow.

But for now there is tango at the seaport. There are pints of Guinness in Irish pubs, leaves falling in Central Park, a new start at an old job and a long list of loose ends to tie. Like I said, I'm ready to grow up now. Wish me luck.

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