Over the years, I thought I would have accomplished so much more. At 23, I told my grandmother I would be well off by 25. 28 and a week closer to 29 and here I am, chasing my tail, stumbling through the same string of thoughts I had when I was less than a quarter-century old.
Before today, he’s known as someone who minds his business, he finds no pleasure in gossip, only resolution and reason. When observed from the outside, you’d think his composure a flawless pillar of strength and endurance. But inside tells a different story. One of continual damage built over years of silence.
I have no plan, no road map, only an idea, and a digital watch on my wrist to remind me how much time I have left, and how much time I’ve spent.
For now, I suppose that’s enough. Then again, maybe not.
The good news is I’ve begun to practice accepting my imperfections. For the past couple of days, I’ve written stories that feel nice to write but make little sense. And I’m okay with that.
I’ve told myself that things would get better. It has, even when most days I fail to notice. Outside, somewhere in a different country, even somewhere here in my country, someone has it worse.
Someone has lost their brother, a son, a sister, a lover.