When I think about it carefully, my elation on this tumultuous joyride is, by all standards and diagnosis, unfounded. Holding on stubbornly to the notion that doing it wrong is better than doing nothing? Oh yes. That’s it. For all I know, I might be blinded by faith, confused by temporal remedy, misdiagnosed with intelligence, misled by facts and misguided by optimism. The wind I am feeling in my hair and the adrenaline pumping through my every capillary might be a sign that I am gliding down a slippery slope. But I’d like to think that at the end of the ride, or tunnel, there is always a soft turf of evergreen, or light. I’m inclined to think that twenty seven years of breathing and nurturing counts for something, even if it is founded on impalpable content. The compass of my conscience and the enormity of my existence – if this is not true, what else is?
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