On one sleepy evening as we lay in bed slowly giving in to the comfort of a warm blanket and full stomachs, the topic of not wanting to work came up followed closely by the notion of eloping into the wilderness and subsistence living, succeeded by the thought of living in trees and a sudden abrupt realisation:
I have not for the last 2.5 years thought about my dream of living in a treehouse.
I had always been enchanted by tree houses ever since i was a kid influenced by readings of The Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton, then by stories of elves building whole communities among trees most notably in the worlds of Raymond E. Feist and J. R. Tolkien.So imagine my excitement when i actually visited a real one when i was in Vanuatu with Liyong all those years ago. I have now forgotten the name of the tree.
My astonishment lay in having forgotten all about it. Even watching the amazing computer generated graphics of home tree in Avatar twice did nothing to trigger this memory. Upon further recollection, it all began when i commenced my job hunting in final year.
Despite the sudden realisation and remembrance of my dream of living in a tree house, the greatest despair lies in the fact that i am no longer able to generate the same amount of passion and excitement at the thought of it. The brain immediately rejects the possibility of such an occurrence.
Medicine has become the destroyer of my dreams, the squasher of my soul, the leacher of my life, to have taken this away from me.
And yet, i cling desperately to my profession, being the coward that i am, unable to unchain myself from this chronic cycle of work.
Perhaps next year... or the next year... or the next year...
I am being moulded into an adult.
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