Meet me in Bali

My own trajectory

                              POV: Davion Bardi

I will hold this pen for as long as I can write. I am not an established writer but I am by heart. I have always found the thrill and joy in writing. The numbness of my fingers as I rapidly jot down words that enter my mind and out in the wilderness of my tangled thoughts. If I slightly hesitate what my mind is commanding me, it would vanish as if I have never even thought of it.

As I sit on the balcony of my apartment, I look down the street full of passersby. Intently searching for someone to conjecture as I sip my warm cup of tea. The sound of a dangling bell drew my attention, I could see a woman with a cigarette between her lips. As she exited the body shop, she took a long puff before extracting the cigarette away from her face and blew out the tensions that clouded distress to all over her figure. She took a last puff before she threw the cigarette on the ground and replaced it with a gum that was in the pocket of her black skinny low rise ripped jeans. The look on her face defined defeat, as if it were its new meaning. Then I write.

"I can smell her despair,

It was like a strong fragrant,

Too obvious enough to notice.

Her shoulders screamed in lowercase,

It must have been holding too much about someone that cares about it less.

And her face I can't forget,

It was like a candle with too much wax, enough to cover the wick."

I closed the book after duplicating it to my collections of poems under the app notes. I then felt a pang of relief and emotions right in my heart. It always happens every time I write with sentiments. Which I seem to, most of the time, I do everything with sentiment. But that excludes time, a time for myself to grow. A time I can borrow to pay for these feelings of fleetingness and not a hint of bother to care for this world. To live without worry of not fitting enough into Society's norms. But I am 18 and I am in college, supposed to have a job and be licensed. I may have been If I was more interactive, I may have been if I wasn't someone who expresses themselves through writing. It's different to me. This is what I am, and I have no disappointment in what I have. Only this feeling of being left out and missing opportunities have left me lost in what I should be. I am 18, But I have no money, no job, no clear plans in life, and no car. People expect too much of me, maybe less by the way I communicate, but I'm only 18. At Least cut me some slack, I'm trying.

After a battle of self thoughts and thinking about uneasiness in life, I impulsively decided to apply for online college level courses on becoming a real estate agent. I have heard many good things about 18 year olds becoming a real estate agent and earning quite a sum of money. I thought there's no harm in getting myself involved in this journey, so I hesitantly pressed subscribe and paid $180 with my remaining $198 allowance, which I ended up with $18. Although this decision has left an enormous doubt in myself, afraid not being able to pay back for it, assuming the $180 spent was already in vain. Believing in one's self sometimes is not easy, but this time, I will trust myself. I will prove to myself that a non communicative and unsociable person can do it just like the rest of those that are nothing like me. I hope to vanquish this never-ending doubt in my own capability with this $180. I will bet on it, as if it's my entry ticket to the paradise of social confidence.

Startled by the sound of a doorbell, interrupts my train of thoughts. I dreadingly walk towards the door, guessing it is presumably the Jehovah's Witnesses trying to convert me. Sucks for them, I'm Catholic. Nonetheless, I opened the door and to my relief, it was just my Mom.

Mom hugged me like I've been a missing child for years. I reciprocated of course.

"You never replied to my messages ever, Christopher." Mom nagged me. "Is your phone broken or what?" she asked.

"No it's just..." I had to stop myself as I was becoming a little defensive. "I've been busy lately."

"Busy from what?" she continued to ask.

"College stuff and you know," I look at her, "just life." I said.

She sighs and looks at me with an unpleasant look.

She settled to give it up, "alright, I won't bother you any longer" and strutted to the counter to help herself make a coffee.

My Mom is an entrepreneur who turned herself into a much wealthier person. Wealthier than her parents combined might I add. Although she was born with a golden spoon, she has refused any money that came from her parents. My Mom took her first job when she was 16 years old. Before that, she would sell her paintings and do pet drawing commissions. By the time she reached 18, she had bought a used car with her money. My grandparents never mind it, as they have always stood by the word "independent and capable". My Mom's trait has been passed through me and I have never really distinguished this whether it's a blessing or a curse.

The apartment that I live in is owned by my Mom, hence why I acquired one despite not having a job. When I turned 18, My Mom had already kicked me out, telling me it's time to be on my own. Since I had no job, I offered for the apartment to be free and leave "buying my first car" to me, and I meant my own money. If I hadn't made that offer first, she would have already bought me a house with cars already in the garage. But I don't like that. I don't want things to be given to me without working hard for it.