Seven years ago I left my home in Trinidad and immigrated to Canada. I never thought I’d do something so bold. I never thought I’d leave my comfort zone, my safety net and my support system behind. I wanted to be a writer. I still want to be a writer, hence the blog. It’s been a little over seven years from the day I set foot on Canadian soil and I’m sitting and wondering where did it all go? I feel as if I’m nowhere closer to what I want. Or perhaps I am and I don’t know it yet. How far I have come from the original path I had set myself.

It was all planned out. I did very well at university. I had a job that paid extremely well and my status in society was confirmed. I was going places. In ten years I would have gotten my PhD and applied for a position as a professor in the same university I would have attended. So what made me change my mind? What made me turn another corner when I was on a straight road and the finish line was just ahead?

A restless child I always was. There was nothing that didn’t interest me. As long as that subject could provide a door out of my safe but humdrum life, I would be interested. My father used to find these books on the side of the street. One day he came home and in the trunk of the car there was an old suitcase and in it there were books. There were so many the suitcase could hardly close properly. To my astonishment many of these were new, like they hadn’t been used yet. The price tags were still on them.

“Who on earth would throw out new books?” I squealed with delight as some of these books became much sought after treasures, after all, my school had provided me with a lengthy book list for the upcoming school term and those books did not come cheap. It never mattered to me if they were tattered and torn, they became auxiliary reading material that I relished regardless of the topic.

I remember one time during an English test. The teacher was passing out the exam papers and I couldn’t wait. When we were instructed to turn over the paper I noticed that ALL of the sections were taken out of books I had read, those same books that my father picked up off the side of the street. Tattered and torn as they were, I read the comprehension passages and answered all the questions simply because I needed something to do. I tried my best to drag out the exam for the hour and a half allotted, but I couldn’t. I finished in twenty minutes. It wasn’t cheating. Technically I had done the exam over and over in my mind. One might call it luck.

Anyway, I digress, but the abovementioned is a memory I carry with me always just to remind myself that one man’s rubbish can be another man’s treasure.

Here I am in Canada and even though I’m inching my way towards a career as a writer, I find myself swimming in self-doubt. Even this blog takes a lot of effort. It’s been three almost four weeks since I’ve posted anything and it’s not for want of anything to write, it’s more of, “why am I writing this?” “what purpose will this serve?”

I should have started this blog from the time I landed in Canada, perhaps I would have had more purpose – or perhaps not. I still don’t know if Canada is the right place for me. Sometimes I feel as if I’m where I’m supposed to be and sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice. The temptation to turn back is great but the motivation to go forward is even greater. I’m at war with myself and I don’t see an end in sight. Someone told me, time will tell and everything happens for a reason. Well, I’m still waiting for that reason and I’m still waiting for time to tell me the truth.

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