There was a time when I aspired to run a marathon in Boston. It was around the time I had just begun to gain confidence in my ability to go the distance in my running. Despite all the splinters and the post-run sores, running gave me such a wonderful release. I would be on an adrenaline high hours after the run. The feeling of running down an open road is unparalleled: the sky above you, a seemingly endless expanse of land before you, the wind on your face… It’s a little piece of freedom we very rarely get to enjoy leading such busy lives. And then there’s crossing the finish-line,…
It’s stupid really. It’s not even that much of a deal to be called a crisis, but what do I call it? Identity problem? Identity predicament? So here’s the thing: I live in a country that is predominantly influenced by the United States, from the way we dress, to the way we speak, to how much the fastfood industry thrives over here, down to the books and the English we study. American English. And yet, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, I cannot stop myself from spelling in British English. That’s it actually. Kind of petty isn’t it?