Is it because I never spoke them out back then that they return to haunt me know? Or is it that God was that dam that kept this flood in check? Because I suddenly find myself disenchanted with this moment. The present presents no allure for me. I yearn for my tender years. And the dreams of those tender years.
I understand what it is to be fortunate. I say fortunate because I’m not sure anymore whether what I’ve had these many years has been success. Success is hard-won. It’s sweat and blood. And I’ve never given that. All I have been is fortunate. Deity has beaten a path for me and bid me walk. But now Deity and I have parted ways, and I feel my fortunes waning.
I understand what it is to be fortunate. I have schooled in the finest institutions this republic has to offer. I have easily blazed a trail through every obstacle. There has not been an exam I did not leave dazed in my wake. Even math- my age old nemesis- has tasted the keen edge of this mind. The cut was not as deep, but my sword tasted blood nonetheless. And it was sweet. But that was then…
Perhaps it is because I am finally learning failure –or shall I say misfortune- that I find myself running back to those tender years when I could sit under the azure skies day-dreaming, and rise content, hours later. Achievement back then was as simple as building castles in the air. But now I find myself challenged to give blood and sweat in exchange for reward, and I fall short. And so I resort to reminiscing about that age of innocence. I attempt to make myself feel like I am still worth these opportunities accorded me; that I still possess that sterling intellect of yore. That perhaps it is not me but my lack of interest in it all that is turning me into this lacklustre carefree student that I have become. That perhaps I followed the wrong path. “I should have pursued my dreams,” I say every time I fail to turn up anything up to scratch. And thus I delude myself. Thus I keep myself shielded from bearing that responsibility that is all too clearly my burden: I have let myself, my family and those who granted me this particular honour down. I am no more than a has-been who still hopes to coast on the glory of his former years. And that cannot be.
The alternative view, again offered up by yours truly, is that I’m depressed, or bipolar, or some other bullshit fronted by the DSM IV to palliate our aching consciences when guilt gnaws at them too hard. For days on end I wallow in bed trying to convince myself that it’s all in my head, that it’s okay, that these are medical matters and that my dopamine levels are at fault. And then I think that I should get my house in order and stop clutching at these feeble straws… But how could I turn away from an excuse so convenient, so non-debatable? So I choose to lie in bed all day, letting my work fall behind. And I watch movies, and read books, and watch serialised comedies and dramas, and watch porn and hope it will all go away. But reality is at the ready to smack me at the end of my fantasy filled stupor. And this time he wears a face more grim than I have seen him don before.
For a moment I clench my balls and act the man. It is a brief and fleeting moment. Hardly have I assumed a fighting stance when he bears down at me with a ferocity hitherto unknown. He draws first blood. I flee, and learning failure once more- or is it misfortune, my flight leads me back to those tender years and the sweet dreams of that age long past. And the cycle of delusion continues, as does my fall. And how great shall be the noise of my landing!
