Bleak
It’s that time of the year again when you look back at your life and find that you haven't done much. You’ve always wanted to make something of yourself, one that would make people stand up and notice; something more than the juvenile “I was here” graffiti you’ve written in toilet doors and bus back seats. You say “I can do more than this!” often enough that you start believing it yourself.
Then another year passes you by. You look out the window and watch your life’s highlights for the past 12 months. You try to pick up the really special moments like that one time when you were laughing so hard you were crying, or that time when you were so proud of yourself you literally felt 10 feet tall, or that day when somebody you dearly loved pass away and you feel like you will never be happy again. These were the moments when you felt truly alive. You count these moments of laughter, pride, and loss with your fingers and you notice that you can pick all of these with just the fingers of one hand.
You grasp the base of the window as the gravity of this revelation hits you– hard. 365 days and you can only say you lived for only 4 days. 4 days out of 365. You felt sick. You can’t believe that you’ve lived another year of meaningless existence. You shut your eyes to steady yourself. “This cant be happening” you tell yourself. After all you’re not getting any younger, you are now a “sir” to a lot of people, and every sentence they throw your way ends with the polite “po”.
You go back to cubicle and for the nth time you reassess your life– staring at your monitor that has already gone blank, your favorite marquee flashing across the screen: “LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO BE DOING SOMETHING YOU DO NOT LOVE”. “Lip service”, you say. Still you proceeded to re-examine your values, got something from your bottom drawer. It’s a dusty box. From inside the box, you brought out the dusty dreams you’ve kept.
“Perhaps its time to realize some of these dreams”, you thought, caressing the pile of dreams you’re holding. You’ve locked these dreams inside the box when you were younger. You reasoned that it’s just a matter of delaying gratification; you need to be practical first. But now when your practicality has paid off, you find that your hidden dreams no longer appeal much to you. Your once technicolored dreams seem so black and white now. You’ve detached yourself from your dreams for so long they no longer feel like they were yours. You sigh and toss your former dreams into the garbage can and closed the lid.
“I just need to create new dreams, that’s all”, you tell yourself as you turn around to face your overzealous officemates, force a smile, and say thank you as they bring out a birthday cake with your name on it.
