People are strange: they are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.

Years ago an appropriate self-portrait of myself might have a been an ice cube. Today its relevance to my former self seems fitting: rigid, cold, conformed. There are many reasons for the decisions I made to live within the little box I chose, and every day, with a little bit of constant introspection, I uncover a new one.

There is the insecurity, probably inherited, that told me I couldn’t be hurt if my dreams weren’t too big; religion answered all the big questions, so there was no reason to derive my own theories; and, the early relationship I clung to, lived within, developed as a substitute for my own identity. All of these were limits.

But I condoned them all. Even though in the past I really did blame each of these things on my life’s state, eventually I realized I made every decision to be who I was. Only after I applied my rules made for other people did I realize that only I was to blame — so I had to change everything.

Today I don’t claim to be the warmest person. Far from it. But, I like to think I’m more willing to flow and accept the overwhelming nature of being alive, and for now that’s good enough for me.