The Fence Writes 30

I want to write 30. I don’t mean going six feet under or anything that involves the loss of breath, or life, or anything that morbid. I want to write 30 for my corporate alter-ego. I want to bury that part, that phase that had me chasing sleep and bemoaning the coming of the morning. Mornings are supposed to be met with smiles and deep breaths; not with creased brows and dread.

I’ve had enough. I’ve had my share of cursing the first rays of sunlight, of wishing that some drivers would drop dead, of wanting to run over civilians who insist on crossing the street when the lights are green. I want to be an amused bystander and perhaps join those hated throng just for the fun of it.

In my own way I have already reached what needed to be reached. These are not the heights that Bill Gates or Steve Jobs have scaled, but they are high enough for people to wish that they were on the same plane too. There’s really not much to it, just water that’s scented and flavored and colored– superficial things that are easily forgotten once you start scratching the surface. I did my own scratching and I concluded that the things I was after weren’t worth the lost time, the foregone laughter with family, the opportunity to really live.

I’m writing 30 so I can enjoy the things that are supposed to be enjoyed while I’m still alive.