Come Back

The fallen poet said “It’s sad that some of us die at 25 but are only buried at 75” his words hummed deep under my skin awakening the knowing within.

Because you see the dreams we had when we were kids were not just a majestic ritual of innocence but a roadmap to our destiny. Those dreamy moments when you knew what you wanted to be so clearly that it could not distract you towards anything else. No tv-game or magazine, no new episode of Buffy or playing with friends – just the quiet searching behind a mountain of moody angst.

Everyday for years on end I would write, explore the darkness with just a match to keep me company and steer my expressions onto pieces of paper smudged with the flavors of a Mayo and Bovril sandwiches. The book would never leave my lap and the pen would never be far from my grip – I would ache for love, adventure and acceptance in a world where I could roam without judgement, without shame.

But life cannot just be an exhibition of rehearsals, there comes a time when it kicks you to life… and when you hit and kick back you find yourself in a dance where the playlist jumps through time without you even realizing it – the notepad has become a memento in a drawer locked away without a captain to log thoughts anymore.

Dreams become a rat race to survive; once mom and dad leaves you alone to swim in a world hungry to drown you with things. Things you never really needed, things that shine and display color with no real feeling or meaning. Trinkets become trophies on display… see my status see my online presence…I am living the dream!

40 Hour weeks you are stuck behind a screen, locked in a cubical dressed in a suit with a tie, high heels and a desire for KPI. You have become a cycle vampire – stuck and thirsty for more. Competing for the simple right to exist in a world you never asked for, but you have to provide for your family and you have to live. Small needs become bigger needs and if they have it why don’t we? 40 hours become 60 once you have that really nice job – you are plugged into the interface and the robotic ritual slowly ticks away.

It’s been decades… you are disconnected on vacation but you feel that haunting need to move, to follow up, the fear of failing, the fear of screwing up. Your wife is agitated because this was meant to be your time, you were meant to unwind. But the release never happens, you are addicted to the dopamine, they made you compliant they made you reliant… your brain is filled with fog, trying to find something to hold on beyond the endless overwhelm of it all.

And there on the hotel table an empty notepad appeared. A quiet voice deep inside behind a wall jumps into the light “I have been waiting for you for so long. I have been waiting for you to remember – to come back.”