It's started, nice and early on a beautiful Saturday morning. The poor guy looks very very tense. He was bouncing off the walls of his room last night and talking really loudly and quickly and occasionally screaming. I'd've laughed if the situation wasn't so serious. I kinda laughed anyway. I'm trying very hard not to think about how many mistakes I made in my papers.
His room's comfortable. It's clean, quite new, and well furnished for uni accommodation. I suppose I should be thankful that he even has a window, then again, it's hard to be thankful on six hours of sleep with the sun streaming in through this wonderful window that's set in the sloping roof above his bed at six forty in the morning.
We were talking last night about responsibilities, not so much the gotta shower everyday, pay my bills responsibilities, but the social, cultural kind that applies mostly to the oldest child, oldest son.
Most of us are brought up to be good, responsible people, with a strong sense of duty to our parents and siblings. We're brought up to be the achievers, the ones who should be able to look after ourselves, and should the need arise, after the rest of our family too.
But what happens when we lack the drive or ambition that our parents want to see in us? When our own dreams or plans for the future don't exactly read 'Good job, wife, and kids by forty'? Sometimes it seems our lives are not ours to lead but to be lead, instead, by the social obligations placed upon us.
I'm sure that looking after our loved ones comes quite naturally but there's always the nagging doubt that you'll fail at it, or that the risks you need to take to chase your dreams leaves you unable to fulfil that duty.
I think your parents will be proud of you no matter what you do, even if you're a circus clown, they'll say that you're the best dammed clown in the industry, but at the same time I think they'd also want a son or daughter they can boast about to their friends, that they have beautiful, well adjusted, talented children, with the perfect story book jobs, and the perfectest grandchildren.
Gosh, I don't know, where do you draw the line?
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