Good Or Bad, I Was One Of The Ones

I have tried to keep up. I have.
I’ve run and I’ve run and I’ve run to the point where I’ve run into myself at the door.
And what does this do for me?
I have burned the candle at both ends.
I ducked and stayed low to dodge the enemies and I hid.
I have surrendered and retreated.
And to what avail?

I ran as fast as I could and somehow, there are times when my legs are stuck, like they are in my one of my scary dreams.
Understand?

Have you ever dreamt that you were in danger and that you had to run but your legs were somehow glued to the floor?
You try to run but as hard as you try, the more your feet seemed glued.
I don’t like these dreams, but they come every so often.
I’m not sure if this would be classified as a dream or a nightmare.
But whatever it is, I can say that I understand the feeling.

Life can be this way too. I try to run, but I just can’t move.
I suppose I am not so different from you or anyone else. At least, I hope not. I hope that at least a piece of me or a semblance of this is somewhat relatable—and if not, then fine.
I can be alone with this. We’ve all be alone before.
Haven’t we?

I do believe that you and I have more similarities than differences.
Or is it better that opposites attract and is it our similarities that cause us difficulties?
I’m not too sure.
Then again, time has shown me that we can never be too sure and that often, people can change in unexpected ways, —or maybe we grow or we move and we separate or we come to a part in the road, which is a clear distinction that says, “okay, you can go left and I will go right,” and neither this nor that means we have to hate each other
(or be enemies)

My dreams have changed throughout the years.
Age does this too, I suppose.

Then again, I am too old to dream about the puppy dogs and rainbows or firetrucks and the spaceships, like I did when I was little.
I could use a good ride on a firetruck with the sirens blaring and the lights twirling.
I would give anything to simplify myself and dream or be satisfied with less, like I was when I was a kid.

I think I’d like a simple day, like say, a lunchbreak on the playground or, say, a game of kickball at recess.
Remember that?
I do.
I think a game of anything would be nice.
I think something to break the tension or something to ease the moment would be great.

I think we need a reminder that everyday living is a precious thing and that we get too involved with the news or politics, or we care too much about the modern day controversies.
I think we need something better than just a quick lunch break in the middle of the day. Or better yet, I think we need more than a few bites of something that we don’t finish because work was too busy.
And dig it . . .
I get it.
Work is work.
If it wasn’t work, then I assume they would call it something else.
Isn’t that a popular saying?
Because it should be if it isn’t.

I remember being a young salesman on my worst day. I had no sales in my book. I had a boss and a few sales managers that yelled at me.
I had a manager throw a stapler at me, —can you fucking believe that?
He threw a stapler at me.
By the way, I have inquired about this with human resources at my place or business. They say throwing staplers is severely frowned upon. deserved or not.
But this is not the time for that debate.
Later that day after the stapler incident, the same manager took my garbage pail and turned it upside down on top of my desk. He said this was because my desk was a mess . . .
“NOW GO SELL SOMETHING!”

I found myself in a conversation with a motivational speaker in the afternoon. And of course, I was unhappy and unmotivated. I had no passion for the work I did. I had no interest. I had no skin in the game, so-to-speak.
The motivational speaker told me that “if you love what you do for a living then you’ll never work a day in your life!”
I hated him for this.
And to be fair, I had heard this saying before.
Multiple times.
But this time hit me differently.

I understood this from an intellectual standpoint.
At the same time, I cursed the speaker (and his mother) right after our conversation.
I cursed him and his mother and his family.
The look on his face was interesting and the way his smile turned from happy to uncomfortable was slightly comforting to me.

Yes. I was “that one!”
I did this.
Know why?
I hated what I was doing at the time.
I hated my job.
I hated my life.
I hated this man’s posture and his positive affirmations.
“Fuck him!!”.
I hated his snappy outfit and his upbeat outlook.
I hated the way he spoke to me, and yes, I wondered if this was real.
I wondered if this man went home and kicked the dog, or maybe he had some kind of secret, like, say, he dressed up as a little Alpine boy and paid hookers to kick the shit out of him in some fancy hotel.
(You never know . . .)

I hated that I was making less money than anyone else I knew.
I hated that I was miserable.
I hated that I was always in trouble or that I was always in debt.
I hated that I never had a real girlfriend or that I never knew how to exchange love in anything other than a lustful or sexual display.
I hated that I believed I was destined to fail or destined to be poor and that I would always be “that one” who had to scrape nickels together, just to get by.

I never want to be “that one” again.

I could use a break.
I could use a moment to myself.
Or better, I could use a beach chair and some quiet time with an easy moment at some kind of bay, turquoise in color, and not to mention that I could use the sound of a soft breeze and the sound of wind hushing through the palm trees.

I know what my dreams are.
I know where I want to be this time next year.
I know that if at all possible, I want to have my feet dangling in the waters while sitting on a float in an emerald bay.

I want to smell the smell of coconut oil and feel the sunbeams hit my skin.
I want to let my skin bake in the sun, which I understand there are contrary opinions of those who worry about the effects of the sun on skin.

But for now, I don’t think I would care.
I know that I have work to do.
I know that I might not love what I do, so therefore, I have to go to work, —I have to deal, despite the idea of loving (or not loving) what I do so that I never have to go to work another day in my life.

All I know is that I am that one who is looking for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Ever fish the coast in the Gulf of Mexico?
Neither have I . . .
But you can bet your ass that one day, I will.

I promise you that I will be “that one.”

Watch me.