The Purposeful Path

I resign. I resign from this station in the most symbolic way possible—through words. The oldest art of mending fences and straining minds. After all, this can’t be all there is to life. Worlds built and destroyed without a single care. Money comes, money goes, life fades and fleets and flits away—but for what? What are we if not ourselves? I promise, things will be better, they always are. At least this is something I tell myself as the days turn into months. It’s about time I took my life back into my own hands.

With this letter there won’t be an apology, an ounce of remorse, regret or second thought given to what lies ahead, or what I leave behind. No time for doubt. I go onto the next chapter of work, love and reverie with brave abandon, reckless lust and sheer courage. I don’t write my words idly or with hesitation. I let them sink into the paper, burrowing holes into the mind. Dark and heavy handed. I leave little room for imagination as my words pass by, line after line with purpose.

You might question this, chalking my motives up to another “poor” life choice, or a mid-mid-life crisis—but alas, this is neither. Just the inner-workings of a tepid, watered-down soul on the verge of beauty, or chaos, or madness. Whatever it be, whether it be success, failure, or unlimited happiness. I plan to go boldly and loudly and in my own way. For I was once someone who lived in the grain, skating the curves of destiny, holding tight to the rules so as to do everything just right. Now I look back and wonder why? Why did living safe feel so wrong. We make one choice, we leave another behind—simple, right? Not so much. Living in the ways of others only got me stuck in an even bigger rut and before I knew it, time was passing me by.

I had a decision to make. I could stay the same, coasting through life, being comfortable and feigning happiness, planting bigger roots, or I could pluck myself up. I chose the latter. As I said, this letter isn’t for you as much as it is for me, myself—the sole person whose words benefit me the most. This isn’t your typical resignation letter, I have no idea what I am actually resigning from, but it makes me happy to say the least.

For anyone else, being the jack-of-all trades was something to be admired, but for me, knowing too much about nothing in particular just stood to make me expendable, sad, undesirable and unaccomplished. I knew odds-and-ends about anything and everything you could imagine. I had lived a thousand lives and weathered a hundred storms. I knew answers to questions you didn’t think you needed and yet, like that old, abandoned tree in the yard—sedentary and crazy. Here I stand. Burning under the rapturous heat of sun, the unrelenting seeds of rain and the torrent of tiny animal claws. I hold the candle that burns too brightly at both ends, melting into a firestorm before the middle even gets a chance to know how hot heat can be.

My leaves wither with the seasons, changing from bright green to browned, burnt orange. Falling to the Earth in fast trepidation. I wasn’t blossoming, I wasn’t sprouting or growing or changing. I had learned to grow quiet, to stunt myself and rip the leaves from my branches, allowing them to fall freely—because it was better to maim myself than to allow others to do it for me, or to me.

Naturally, in those confines, I wasn’t the strong one, the quiet one, or the boisterous one. I was meticulous, defiantly fierce and dedicated to the face of dangerous neglect. I let others dictate my fate, my future, my story. It is a tragic tale, older than time itself— but this one, this one will be freeing—for not only myself—but for you. At least that is my hope in this life—for each of us to find a place—for whom it would do some good to have change. To start over, to forge a new story, a new destiny, a new ending—or rather, a new beginning?

I was thoughtful, enigmatic, doubtful and full of worry. Fear had held me back for so long, longer than I could remember and yet, under all this burdensome grief, lay a wounded bird. A speckled wing. A furrowed heart and shattered mind. A wilted flower begging for fresh rain. A mottled river begging for the draining tides to sweep through and loosen the cemented silt. Tired from being an anchor, a moor, a pier, an uncapped lighthouse, a burden. Tired. Tired.

I’m not a shot in the dark, or a beacon of light fighting for stability amongst the waves. I want to be free, to be whole, to be me.

With this letter I resign, I resign myself from the confines of my mind and I allow myself the opportunity to create more with the life I have, to allow all good things in, to be willing to accept change. To have grace, and glory and peace in my mistakes.