My disinterest in the corporate world grew like a tumour even as I persevered with my business school applications and toyed with quitting my job without an exit plan. I felt lost and confused, not knowing what I really wanted. What was the point of another promotion? I wished I could be in school again, where life was straightforward: achieve, accomplish, and achieve more. Now I could decide what to do with my weekends and spare time, and yet I didn’t know what I wanted to do or where to go.
I used to dream of days with free time in which to read every novel I could get my hands on, yet the books I bought each time I passed through an airport remained untouched on my bookshelves. I would start on page one but fail to keep my eyelids open. I thought having a job meant financial security and the freedom to use my time without curfews or debate competitions on the weekends. I thought I could sit in the café under the trees to write poems, to compensate for lost time studying physics or calculus. I tried to force myself to write more again and scribbled down ideas for writing a book. I had wanted to publish a book since I knew books existed, but most thought being an author would not pay the bills. I missed the days when I could let my sentiments flow in waves of words, but my mind would go blank and I could only flip my pen in between my fingers and doodle.
I was exhausted, and even mint chocolate-chip ice cream could not lift my spirits.
Where was I going to? And why?