The Queue Of Life

I am nearly 31.  I take the bus everywhere.  I don’t have a house, a company car, a white picket fence, a pension, 2.5 children or a good job.  All I have is an imagination, a good woman, a sense of righteous indignation and a belly full of anger.

The striking fact is that as I get closer and closer to the half-way point of my life it has become crystal clear that I will never realise what little potential I have.  I will remain just me.  Neither an achiever nor a failure.  Just another idiot waiting in line to die.  And that infuriates me even more.

The problem with fulfilling these expectations is that they are not things I aspire too.  I don’t want to merely shuffle along the line until I drop dead.  I want to be happy.  I want to feel alive.  I don’t want to be an accountant.  I don’t want to be stuck in a classroom.  If the sum total of a mans worth is his CV and his pension fund then I am mere amoeba.

Unless man is the total of his actions.  Then I am still fucked.  I remain a dreamer, at odds with himself, desperately awaiting the 60 seconds of inspiration it takes to change someones life.  And there’s the problem.  I have spent my life avoiding the possibility of waiting in line until I drop dead, and instead wasted far too much time waiting for a miracle.  It’s only now I am coming to terms with it.

I need to get out of this queue.  The only way to do it is to take action.  And that is the hard bit.  At least I am half way there.

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