Like, really, I’m sick of being here. There’s a bigger world out there, moving at breakneck speed, and I find myself stuck in my home Islands screaming to get out.
It’s not that Hawaii isn’t awesome. The world loves Hawaii. But at some point, if we are to truly define ourselves—who we are and where we come from—then it is imperative we leave our home.
I left, I did. I went to San Francisco and slept on a floor for ten months. I got a job and worked like a dog and saw the pace of innovation, and sadly did not keep up. Then I was turned away and now I’m back home.
So does that count as leaving? Were the wheels properly greased?
Wondering what the hell is going on with my life
I’m approaching bone-fide middle age and have no idea who I am, what I do and where I’m going. That frightening uncertainty is also seeping into the lives of my family, and I feel bad for that.
Somewhere, deep in there, is that certainty. That person is in there, and perhaps closer to the surface than I’m apt to believe. But the right sequence of switches need to be switched.
I’m sick of talking, and wish I was just thrust into a situation where all I could do is act. Pure tactical survival.
Piecing together a worthy life
It has something to do with writing, feeling, helping and changing the world. But I don’t even know where to begin. That is why I write—because it is the only act I have left, the one things that is independent of all other things.
Even though I’m sick of Hawaii, I’ll stay here so others may benefit. Just as long as I heed that call to greatness, and the moment of clairty arrives swiftly, and powerfully.