Growing Up

I am a twenty-five year old kid.

Last night, while I was rushing the accounting of my phone bills, it dawned on me that my responsibilities are catching up with me, finally. Responsibilities/obligations/tasks, in whatever form that I've been trying to avoid are coming to the fore, like an army, ready to slaughter me: nearly one-year worth of unaccounted phone bills deducted from my salary; four or five liquidations, which, left unsubmitted will also be deducted from my meager, I repeat meager, pay; resumes of friends that I need to submit to the office; a request by a cousin left undone; a room crying for some order.

My room is the metaphor to where I am right now: cluttered, in disarray. And such is my epiphany: for twenty-five years, I've been like careless kid thinking that things will take care of themselves and problems will find their own solution.

But I've ran too many miles and have grown tired, and they're around the bend. Running away from them is no longer an option.