draft 1, rough
In life we linger. We are tiny fruit flies swarming the sweetness of unpromised fruit. One minute the fruit is there, the next, gone. We linger around comfort and familiarity. Or, we linger where others linger. Or, we linger in variety. Maybe we linger in excess - drugs, alcohol, sex, work. I linger in the hopes of something bigger and better than myself - purpose.
Some of us do not linger. Some of us are planted, rooted, and thoroughly confidently set like cement in a path that will lead where it leads. I am a lingerer but always just touching my fingers in wet cement, removing them before it dries. I linger in the hopes of becoming cement, the hand that holds the fruit.
I grow old...I grow old. Everyday older and yet, everyday farther from what my life was imagined to be. Everyday older and yet, everyday more myself. Everyday older and yet, standing still. How have I come to be in the same place in which I started?
I linger now with my tiny wings flapping wildly to catch wind, to land firmly in wet cement and to stay there, until it dries.
Essay response:
While contemplating my past and future I have noticed a pattern of when I am happiest and when I am unhappiest. I have finally compiled a list of my passions and a game plan on how to fulfill my desire to continue exploring my interests while still being able to "survive". I have lingered in various areas of interest for a long time and that is both a positive and a negative. I have a lot of interests and hobbies yet no real direction, no way to transform those into a "life". I am closer than I have ever been - I am pursuing a career path that will allow me to value my personal ambitions over a job that may (undoubtedly) consume me. I have been called a "free spirit" and I intend to remain that way while still balancing the practicalities of daily life.
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