I’m of the belief that everyone in the world at some point makes a subconscious decision to be good or evil.  I also believe that this choice is driven by the environment presented to a person as they’re growing up.  Some people are given more opportunity in the world than others, there’s no question there.  However, some people have such strong character that, despite a horrible environment, good still prevails.

We should all strive to do good, and if we’re unsure of what “good” really is, we should strive to make those that are around us smile.  Afterall, people only truly smile when things are good.

I’ve often wondered if freedom is nothing but a state of mind, a feeling, and not something that’s really tangible.

When I imagine freedom I imagine the feeling of being free.  The state my mind and body is in.  Relaxed, and not being urged to do anything but enjoy what’s around me.

While sitting in the office I’ll often look out the window towards the trees, noticing the sun’s orange glow reflecting off the leaves, seeing the deep blue sky as the leaves part in the wind.  While doing this I imagine the feeling of the sun on my skin, and transport myself to a state where nothing is wanted of me, where there are no plans, no needs, and no desires.  It’s during moments like these that I feel free.

I find that I need a constant in my life.  Something that ties the current me to my past.

I recently discovered that other families keep memories and the past alive by retelling stories over dinner, or at family get-togethers.  The past remains vivid in their minds.  My family isn’t the same.  We do occasionally reminisce, but not that much, and not much during family get-togethers.  Well, I’m not really sure to be honest.  I am unable to speak my family’s native language so most of the time the things that are being said are missed in their entirety by me.

I fear that one day I will be the only one that remembers anything of my childhood.  I’m an only child.

As a child my parents would often take me on road trips.  My mum had a manual Honda Prelude, top spec at the time with sunroof, 4 speaker cassette stereo, and strawberry red metallic paint.  The obligatory gold pinstripes were also optioned.

We would drive to Bobbin Head, taking the long, winding, and daunting road down the hill through the national park.  I was so interested with the little stick that had numbers 1 to 5 and the letter R written on it that I would sometimes watch my father or mother run up and down the gears the whole way down the twisty section of road.

Soon after, I grew an understanding of what the gears meant, and what the clutch did but not how the clutch really worked.  At the time I was 4 years old.

My parents noticed my obsession with the gears and they decided they would play a little game with me.  Asking me what gear they should be in, I would think for a moment then tell them.  They obliged, even if it meant going into 4th despite slowing down to under 30km/h (thank God it was a downhill slope!).  That didn’t happen often after that first time. I could feel the car was not happy.  I soon learnt what gears they needed to be in for each corner.  Pretty good for a 4 year old!

I guess that’s where my obsession with cars began.

Through the years my mother always mentioned that I would someday inherit that Prelude.  She would proudly proclaim to her boss at the time that, “My son will inherit this car when he’s old enough.”

To which her boss would laugh and say that it’d be too old by that stage.

In the 1990′s my mother upgraded her beloved Prelude, and traded it in for a top of the line Honda Accord.  I never got to drive the Prelude, and I always wonder what became of it.  It was still in very good condition when it left our hands.

In 1984 we moved from an apartment in Hornsby into the first house that my parent’s built.  Being accustomed to essentially 4 rooms with no land and moving into a 2 story house on a large block was a bit of a change for me.  This house became our home, and has become a place of comfort for me.

I loved this house so much that when my parents were thinking about moving I begged that we didn’t.  They even showed me the houses they were thinking of building.  They were huge, but I never wavered.  I didn’t want to leave our home, our history.

My best friend Benji and I spent countless hours in the backyard.  Running around playing.

Every afternoon he would wait patiently for me at the side gate.  Tail wagging.  Excited and wanting to jump but holding himself down in the seating position.  Letting out a woof of joy on seeing me, when he could hold it no longer.  He would then proceed to spin on the spot and gaze eagerly as I walked down the drive.  Tail wagging at a million miles an hour.

When ever I visit my parents, as I walk down the drive I can see him sitting there.  Welcoming me home.  I still miss you old friend.

My family felt so much closer back then.

I wish I knew what the future held for me, my family, and those close to me.  I’m not sure if it would spoil the story, but it would be comforting to know.

Maybe it’s not the future that I want to know about, but  the knowledge that everyone is going to be ok.  That the issues we’re facing have an acceptable solution.  That things will just work out.

Having dwelled on this before, I know there’s a danger of living in fear of the-next-bad-thing.  Which is horrible.  How can you possibly enjoy anything if you’re constantly worried and trying to plan for the next bad thing that might or might not happen.  You’ve gotta let go and have faith, but what if you can’t.  How do you find faith if it’s been illusive for such a long time.  What is there to believe in if history has shown that belief without knowledge leads to little or nothing.

How can you trust that whatever lies over that horizon is something good.