Friday, 9 August 2013

Good luck.. Good riddance..

Many have been the nights when I stayed awake till the early hours of the morning, mulling over the opportunities I'd missed and the abundant satisfaction I would've basked in had I exerted a little bit more effort.. If only I'd been braver, wiser, less concerned about the importance of what isn't important. I distinctly recall one such night during which I looked into the mirror for fairly long period of time, listening to the sound of my scornful, youthful voice and examining my not-so-youthful features. I berated myself for not doing enough and made a vow to turn things around. The reason behind my ceaseless self-flagellating remains a mystery.. one I'm not particularly interested in unravelling so much as I'm intent on abandoning. The reason: I'm exhausted.

I'm not a failure. Yet. It's completely within my reach to be the man I've wanted to be since I was a young, starry-eyed Harry Potter lookalike. Numerous people I've known over the years have somehow made me believe that failure is an inevitable outcome considering who I am and what I'm like. This has translated itself into how I perceive myself, my abilities and my chances of success and, ultimately, happiness. I’m not pinning all the blame for my shortcomings on others, though. I take full responsibility for being a procrastinator par excellence. Though my excuses are rife, they are genuine. I'm not merely lazy. Sometimes I'm crippled by my own thoughts and feelings towards myself and others. My mind is fraught with suspicions. These suspicions, coupled with the debilitating sense of inadequacy, make it impossible for me to get anything done. Here, I'm referring to writing. Outstanding assignments have been the hallmark of my time at university. Whilst contemporaries have gone on to complete two degrees, and despite friends' and relatives' unwavering support, I'm yet to graduate. Held back by a single essay, I feel trapped in an endless cycle of demands, expectations and the dreaded, daunting prospect of not making it. So much potential, so little achieved.

Yesterday was my 25th birthday. If I were to blow it out of proportion, I'd say it's my first real milestone. But it's not. There have been many milestones which I ought to cherish and appreciate more than a single day plucked out of a calendar – the result of sheer chance.

I should take pride in my skills and have faith in my abilities. Important as it may be, my degree does not define me. Neither does my job, nor my appearance. My single most important achievement to date is my daughter whose development and infectious smile fills me with unbounded happiness, a kind of happiness equalled by nothing. I will write more regularly. I will complete this one essay over the next few days so I can stand on a graduation podium with her. It will be for her.

As for those who I once loved and am no longer in such awe of, I am grateful for everything you represent. You’re a bitter lesson I hope to have learned: I will only pour my love at the feet of people who’ve stirred my soul. My hair is receding, my eyes are becoming panda-like, but I am more clear-headed than I have ever been in your presence. I wish you all that’s good in life. Just don’t bother enquiring as to how I’m faring. I’m better because I don’t care about you anymore.

Good luck.. Good riddance..

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