How could commitment not be frightening? Settling down is just death’s FastPass; skip the lines of intrigue, adventure, wearing different hats each and every day — the glory of being your own Renaissance Man — to instead get a deli-ticket for your turn in the abyss. You’re just committing yourself to the end before you knew this blip of existence even started.
I want to tell a different story, or if I am destined to settle, let me struggle to get there. Twenty-two years only taught me to create, explore, get gritty and tired. I yearn to tell a story, if only to give myself a satisfying plot line.
So let’s commit to telling a new chapter. Let me show you your next story.
I’m 22 years old I still can’t give anyone a straight answer on anything. I’ll dance around my career options just as much as committing to an entrée. Yet in this waltz I’ve come to dabble my feet into so many fields — journalism, the arts & communications, even the button-mashing chore of number-crunching data — the idea of commitment is terrifying.
