I’m scared.
I’m really scared.
I’ve never been this frightened before.
No, it’s not the physical fear of those unspeakable blood-lusting leeches or lifelong scars (ironic, huh, considering the pale rope-like one down my chest).
More like afraid of college, of not being able to fulfill what is expected of me.
Afraid of being seen still grappling on to something that should have been familiar to me by now, that I’m merely crawling while people were already running.
Afraid of plunging whole-heartedly and immersing into something I love best just because it isn’t a priority in the syllabus, because I should be embracing something of higher level, college standard, as they call it.
And no. I’m not regretting my choice in music. Nor is this a post on ‘the path not taken’. I’m just saying, sometimes, I’m tired. Tired of forcing myself to love jazz when all it ever did was make me yearn for someone to turn it off. Tired of being told over and over that I’ve got to learn other genres besides bossa nova.
I’m not a lamp, damn it. Nor am I a computer or other goddamn electric appliances where my skills and intelligence could be switched on or off with a flick of a finger.
I know more than a year has passed since I started my relationship with jazz. But haven’t people heard love takes time? So, give time, time.
Sigh. At times like these, I wish my dad's a jazz lover, not reggae and pop. Heck, I probably knew who Beatles and Bob Marley were way before that freak of a purple dinosaur Barney or those disfigured muppets in Sesame Street.
Then again, Manchester was not a famous breeding ground for jazz, was it? So who else did I expect my dad’s idols to be?
P.S. I promise I'll try (:
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