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.
