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| A portrait of Woolf by Roger Fry |
For quite some time, I’ve been dreaming living the life of
Virginia Woolf, this is my secret. I
always wanted to spend my days in daze then in a second writing feverishly, if
not, furiously. I would just float away
in my own world where I can just make it into my own, how it works, how it
looks like, and how events would transpire and explain it in my own terms. I fear of dying of boredom doing something
that does not make me happy. I
understand, this is not how conventional wisdom flows.
Is this the life that I want for myself? A life lived on other people’s expectations
and daily rot. My poor idealistic self
is again staring at me, asking me “What
do you live for?” I have an
automated response to this question, of course, for my kids, for my husband, my
family, but never for myself. I may
sound selfish as I say this but I am very certain that I am not.
First, we need to live for ourselves before we could go on
conquering the world. To attain that
level of self-recognition, you must define yourself, aspirations, fears, and
all. Simply put, you need to know what
makes you feel great, the type of feel-great that makes the hair at the back of
your neck stand. You need to pursue your
passion, if you don’t know it yet, then you must take time to search it. This is the essence of a life well
lived. One can only live for others
unless she lives for herself first. This
is now my answer.
