Life is better with eyes closed than eyes open. Maybe I’m blinded by feeling. Maybe I’m feeling blind. Maybe I should open up my blinds and let some sunlight in. I wouldn’t sparkle, but I would get a fair tan.
Either way, my eyes are shut. I’m traveling through the turmoil of the day. “Did I make a mistake?” I ask myself. Actually, it’s more like “how many mistakes did I make?” It’s not “did I live another day,” it’s “did I survive?”
Every feeling thereafter defines my day. How I “felt” about it. I’m the one determining if I succeeded or not. But that standard comes from somewhere, from my father, and my father’s father. I’m aware of my flaws simply because I’ve seen my father make the same mistakes.
It’s a vicious cycle. My father passes down his worse traits onto me and then I bring them to life in a sequel. It’s a shame. I have the opportunity to use my parent’s failures as a lesson, but I don’t. I was never that good in school. The only thing I’m improving is making bigger mistakes. I’m better at fucking up than he was. Somebody give me a medal.
There are moments I wish I was a better man, a bolder man. One whose gaze determines his direction. But my mind is too busy. It’s firing on all cylinders at all times. I’m rarely the guy everyone expects me to be, the better version of my father. I’m as far as I’ll ever be.
“A victim of circumstance.” At least that’s what I tell myself. “If I were older I’d do this, wiser I’d do that, with more money or with more power.” But none of it matters because I’ve done nothing with it all. I’m a victim of my own creation, because I’m the one telling the story.
