The days have turned into months. Each week rolls over the last like another layer of paint over a rough blood and tear stained wall. Heart in the air, head in the sand and my mind obstinately hidden within the illusory comfort of inane daily activities. When I was drowning in the action I craved and yearned for the sanctity of these idle moments at the end of the day. That small pocket of peace when the world grows quiet and your mind winds down in preparation for slumber.
During this reprieve I would reflect upon the day, scribble a few sentences in my five year journal and steel myself for another day of hacking and slashing my way towards my lofty goals. The bloodthirsty pursuit of massive wealth by any means necessary. I articulated it in much more flowery prose. Achievement, success, creating, establishing, goal setting, dream weaving and all the other euphemisms for hedonistic material accumulation.
I swung and I missed. More than once. More than twice. More than I can recall and much more than I’d like to remember. I missed so many times that eventually my bat broke and I walked off the field. Now that there is some physical and temporal distance from the epicenter of my latest failure I can look back through a new lens upon my follies.
A tragic comedy of errors with disastrous results. A mentor once told me that success isn’t what you get, success is the person you become. The person I have become would have wistful empathy and pity for the person I was. That person I was would also look upon my current incarnation with similar pity.
Is there a road to redemption or does it lead to perdition?
Zig, can a wandering generality find his way back to being a meaningful specific?