The truth is most of me had given up. I had resigned myself to the idea that perhaps not everyone gets to have a life of their own making. That my parents and their parents and most certainly their parents, had settled for a quiet, ordinary life and discarded the hippie pursuit of happiness for the need for peace. Of some sort. Somewhere, some kind of way. They had resigned themselves to settling for the things in their lives that they could control with the least path of resistance, since life certainly wasn’t going to smooth the way for them. They’d gotten jobs that paid the bills and found spouses that were nice enough I suppose or perhaps they stayed alone. They found a place in the world they could carve out some silence if they needed it and had ordinary children in an ordinary house that felt like home when they closed the door behind them at the end of a long day. They had done it, and so could I. Right?