I started out with so many dreams, such promise along with some drive and even some talent. And yet I'm still fighting the same struggles I've been fighting the past 40 years, still making the same mistakes I've been making for four decades. I've learned nothing and gone nowhere. Easter has always been special to me because I'm enamored of the theme of rebirth. But when does it become meaningless in the face of repeated unfulfilled promise? The phoenix tattoo I got on my 30th birthday is now 24 years faded like the hope it was meant to represent – that I'm not too old, too late to achieve anything other than mediocrity and the bare minimum of a functional adult. The life I've constructed is vapor and lies, a brittle veneer of what others expect to see.
How do you go on when there are no dreams of a better tomorrow, no joy and no purpose? The same way as it's always been, I suppose: inertia and the path of least resistance, ever seeking the grooves of transient pleasure and least unhappiness.
