I'm Sorry to Disappoint, But I Wish I'd Done So Sooner
Note: This piece appears in the print version of FilAm Jam, Issue #2, Spring/Summer 2024.
Age? Twenty-nine years old.
Homeowner? No. Not for a long while, if ever.
Marital status? Single.
Car? I don’t drive.
Corporate track? As if.
By every metric that had previously defined and dictated my life, I am an abject disappointment.
I regret not flouting these metrics sooner.
“Took my chances on a big jet plane.
Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same.
Oh, the sea was red, and the sky was gray.
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.”
I still hum this now, Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California.” Though in my case, leaving California was my new start. When I left, the prospect of a new and wholly different tomorrow felt like a desperate relief from suffocation of the unbearable today. Under that gorgeous golden California sun, moments of happiness had always seemed ephemeral—lingering shortly only to be supplanted by the next obnoxiously predictable objective towards success. The paths before me had been well-trodden. So that the land was bare and barren and that once-comforting California sun came down heavy and mean, prodding us to chase phantom fruit.
I fled and defected to join the ranks of other disappointments. The giver-uppers. The had-so-much-potentials. Before us, we’ve found greener grass. Veiled with uncertain fog, but soft under our feet, calling out with the promise of newness and belonging.
The song continues.
“Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams.
Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.”
As I stand on this hill, my dreams are my own and plenty. Every unknown tomorrow thrills me.
As a bonafide disappointment, I’ve shuffled disgracefully and audaciously off the stage. A pariah, an outlaw, and a blacksheep to all that once gave me purpose, I ride towards a lush meridian—the peak I’d never seen from the oft-traveled wasteland.
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