My Life's Afternoon

My life's afternoon,

here in my forty-third year.

My old ambitions

covering the forest floor

blowing past like autumn leaves.

I had such noble visions, such high hopes, such pipe-dream ambitions. I envisaged literary grandeur. I would one day be a household name. Numerous novels topping the best-seller lists, and even a few films to celebrate my fame. I imagined a Nobel medal dangling around my neck and a fleet of luxury cars. I dreamt of mansions, country estates and even a writing retreat in postcard Japan. Naturally, my wife satisfied my intellect as well as my carnal desires—an image of a Hollywood starlet draped over a muscular arm. Beneath my breast, a courageous heart would beat, and behind my eyes, would be nestled one of the greatest creative minds the world had ever seen.

Oh, such pie-in-the-sky ambitions. Wretched banality. And to think, I actually believed I was an original. What on earth made me believe that in this world of nearly 8 billion accursed beings, I might actually stand apart? How many other poor souls have nursed similar opium visions only to have their hopes dragged across reality's razor wire?

Billions now, and billions before me, no doubt. I imagine even an Egyptian slave, while he was still blessed with the delusions of youth, once dreamt of being the Pharaoh. That is, of course, until his master's lash finally brought him down, broken and humbled, to his knees.

But 43 years? Why did I lie here asleep, dreaming for so damned long? 43 years old, and only now am I waking up from these childhood dreams? Jesus, and what has happened while I slept? My boyhood friends, my classmates, my old work colleagues; they've all become adults. Mature men and women, with partners, careers, teenage children, mortgages and retirement plans. They know the secret codes of social interaction, while I stammer at the simplest aspects of human civility. They understand the intricacies of property investment, tax concessions, and even the subtleties of health insurance. Meanwhile, I remain outcast, rubbing my sleepy eyes, blinking up at the world, completely baffled.

Two decades of marijuana smoking and failed literary ambition have clearly taken their toll on me. With my newfound sobriety, I look out at the world with clear yet frightened eyes. My confidence—once so smug and so sure of itself—has leaked out of the soles of my feet. Even the 20-somethings passing this lonely table in the plaza have more poise and maturity than I do. A young asian man in pressed suit and slacks ready to conquer the world. Two gym-sculpted girls, flashing their abs in mid-riff tops, strutting their stuff with the apparent confidence of catwalk models. Yet, here I sit, alone, alienated and uncertain.

Did I take the wrong path?

Is it too late to turn back or alter my course?

How do I find myself here in this miserable position, so late in the game?

10 months ago, my body betrayed me. Struck down by ill-health, I've finally clawed my way back to a semblance of health. Oh, but it wasn't easy, my imaginary friends. It's like I was dreaming I lived in Wonderland only to wake up to find myself in a Kafka novel—a mere insect who invites nothing but the world's scorn.

Speaking of old Kafka, perhaps, that depressed Czech was right after all.

“There is an infinite amount of hope in the universe ... but not for us.”

But then, if there's no hope for us, then for who? Those bastards I see on the television screens, fawned over by the masses as if they were demi-gods? Swaggering down the red carpet, their arms around the harlot that should have been my muse and mistress? Look at them with their Colgate smiles and their barber-sculpted beards. Once, I would have envied them. Now, however, I feel no jealousy at all. If anything, seeing them only highlights my lowly position on society's rickety ladder. Alone on a Saturday afternoon, my old dreams blowing around my feet like trash. Watching the happy couples from my table. Young and healthy folk, with their dreams still intact, maybe even fulfilled. Everybody decked out in the latest fashions while I wear these old Kmart rags. They look so sure of themselves. Shit, and with the current state of fashion, they probably have their own life coaches and personal trainers.

Just look at them! Have you ever seen such a spectacle? I ask you, where on earth do they find such confidence? I wonder, is it just an act? Who knows, maybe they're just as uncertain as I am. I often hear them throwing around the phrase, "fake it until you make it." So, maybe that's it. Maybe it is just an act. Then again, when I was their age, I too believed in my rising star. I still imagined that I would leave a deep and lasting mark on the world. After all, my whole life lay ahead of me, didn't it? Yes, just as their whole lives lay ahead of them now too.

Ah well, either way, it seems things have finally changed for me. I've woken up from my childlike slumber and finally see a hint of an unsettling truth. Now, I am surrounded by my dead ambitions. Dried leaves that once flourished from my limbs, but have since fallen from me in this autumn of my life.

Who can say what the future holds for me? With time, maybe these dead dreams might turn into mulch—an ideal compost heap in which to plant a few new seeds. Heavens, isn't this meagre attempt at writing itself a sure sign that I haven't given up all hope just yet?

On the other hand, maybe I haven't changed so much after all. It could be this very second, as I try to build this website out of nothing, that I am still building castles in the clouds just as I did in my late teens.