Placed upon the road

It has been too long that I wait for the trip to start. So long that one gets tired, enthusiasm worn down, and fervor chilled. Nevertheless, emotion is calmed and one interestingly regains the enjoyment of waiting. Waiting to see what's on the road.
The condition of my right arm is gradually improved, although unable to be fully straighten or bent. So the last few days before launching into my journey were spent in resting, staying still, overcoming the difficulties of exerting the basic bodily functions.
When I met kid for the first time, she said one thing that completely freaked me out. "Try as you may, the one will have you." Scary, isn't it? (Another friend asked me years later: do you believe in fate? Well……) But in the past few days I started to think: maybe it is true. You know what it is gonna be, just can't admit it.
But that doesn't mean that I knew the accident that injured my arm was foreseeable to me.
What I meant was — I know what I was longing for even before my condition put me in situation allows me nothing else. All of a sudden most of the daily activities were forbidden, only putting ice on the injured part, resting. Can't type the computer, can't cook, can't open the door, and can't dress up. All there is are simply sitting, waiting, focusing on the pain and trying to ease it. At times like this strange feelings about my life emerge. What was I doing? Were what I did really meaningful? The chat, the wondering, the anxiety, the plotting and the despondency, the fucking about; none of these seem to have any meaning now. Not necessary for sure.
So, what now?
I've been thinking about these years. Come and go one place after another. Although not yet climb the highest mountain or run through the field, I still haven't found what I am looking for. Only memories of faces and streets urge me to go on.
In these few days of not able to go anywhere, I indulged myself in basic pleasure of reading, watching movies on TV, and eating. What's funny was that I felt no sense of guilt, as if that was my life. Yes, I know in Room Six Chekhov denounced people leading such life as sluggards; my situation is actually far from that of those in real pain, at the edge of survival. Yes, from this perspective I should at least have a slight sense of guilt. But no. I indulged what I left out in daily lives. The best I could be reproached was my stupidity, stupidity in arranging my daily lives.
For long I've felt that life has turned into still water. But when forced to be still, hope vaguely reveals itself in calmness.