Yes, I truly do remember. The tapestry of my memories weaves together moments of youthful arrogance and the wisdom that time bestows. As I grew, I cast disdainful glances at my elders, their wrinkles and graying hair signposts of lives lived. I judged them—the drunk uncles at family gatherings, the single parents navigating life’s labyrinth. Their choices baffled me, like trying to decipher a cryptic code.
Nicotine addiction in adults seemed absurd. I saw them stumble home after dark, alcohol’s haze clinging to their clothes. How could one reach forty without a house, a sanctuary against life’s storms? And those above thirty who lacked cars—did they not yearn for the freedom of open roads? My youthful mind painted them as reckless, lost souls.
In the throes of my first relationship, I believed love was a straightforward game. Faithfulness and prayers would ensure a happily-ever-after. By twenty-five, I’d marry, perhaps own two houses by thirty, and ascend to greatness. The path seemed clear, like a sunlit highway. Even a level-headed teen at sixteen would hold a driver’s license, right? But life’s twists defy logic. How could one backslide? I burned with fervor for God, flames licking my soul.
Career guidance sessions became my compass. I prayed—oh, how I prayed! Fasting became my ritual, a hunger for purpose. Motivational books adorned my shelves, their pages whispering secrets of success. I studied relentlessly; my social circle curated with precision. On social media, I followed luminaries like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg. They were my North Star; I was destined to join their constellation.
Movies spun their tales, and I, like an eager acolyte, identified with the hero. Surely, I’d emerge unscathed. Growing up, failure seemed an alien concept. As a devout Christian, I was meant to be the head, not the tail. Christ’s hope pulsed within me; I believed I could move mountains. Yet, strangely, my prayers never entreated for longevity. In my dreams, I saw myself gray-haired, living into old age. Depression? For losers. Suicide? A path for the weak.
But at twenty, without a driver’s license, doubt crept in. Perhaps I’d overestimated my prowess. Then, the relationship—crafted in heaven’s forge—crumbled. Certainties wavered; I hadn’t figured it all out. Age-mates departed; their devout hearts silenced. Some healthier, more fervent than I. I gazed upon a friend’s lifeless form in a casket—a sweet soul, extinguished too soon. Not for wrongdoing or missteps, but by the cruel hand of fate.
Life, that elusive weaver of destinies, dances to its own rhythm. Departed colleagues—once vibrant threads—snapped by cruel accidents. After graduation, the job hunt humbled me, each rejection a chisel against unchecked ego. Those I deemed academically inferior secured jobs effortlessly, leaving me bewildered. How does one pour heart and soul into a relationship, only to watch another chosen? The promiscuous find wedded bliss, while I—the chaste—struggle to string together a month of companionship. And when rejection stings, it cuts deep, like a jagged blade.
Colleagues diverge, their paths etching stories in life’s tapestry. I, too, grow—sometimes upward, sometimes sideways. Failures pepper my journey, like stars in a moonless sky. I sip into nights, mirroring the uncles I once scorned. Relationships ebb and flow, akin to prayerless seniors I once judged. Wealth eludes me; I am no billionaire. The years have tempered my ambition; perhaps contentment is its own wealth. My faith wavers, God’s presence flickering like a distant star. Houses remain elusive, their walls mere dreams. At twenty-nine, I’m no professor, but life’s lessons are my curriculum. Illness knocks, and I plead for longevity. I jog, mindful of mortality, and watch what I eat. The economy—once irrelevant—now shapes my reality.
In the quiet chambers of my heart, I harbor wishes—not born of malice, but steeped in love. For you, dear soul, I wish the taste of failure—the bitter draught that humbles and reshapes.
May you be faithful, pouring effort into endeavors, only to be dropped and ghosted. Picture this: your job slipping away just as you cradle life within—a child’s heartbeat echoing your vulnerability. And your perfect body? Let it shift, imperfections weaving a new narrative. Perhaps a few days without income will strip away illusions, revealing that those by the street corner are not mere shadows—they, too, bear stories etched in hardship.
Remember when you believed marriage was a reward for chastity? Shake that certainty. Trust, once unshakable, may falter. The ones you trust—know they, too, stumbled through school’s corridors, their dedication a silent anthem. Goals? Some remain elusive, like distant constellations. That coveted visa? Delayed, perhaps, until you grasp that time and chance dance together, weaving destinies.
Fortunes diverge, yet you cling to the notion that church walls secured your job. But what if you fail at something within your control? Yes, let yourself down. Feel the weight of infallibility slipping through your fingers. These wishes—like thorns—prick your pride, urging you to seek the overlooked. When you enter the sanctuary, bypass the glittering jewelry; seek the widows, single mothers, and orphans. Extend a hand, for in another world, it could have been you.
Opportunities—grasped or squandered—paint the canvas of existence. But ponder those who, like you, were dedicated yet stumbled. Their footprints linger, whispering that grace is woven into every thread of life.
And as you drive through town, lower your stereo. Roll down your windows, let the breeze carry your compassion. The paupers—their eyes mirror your own. You, who seized chances, now offer them solace. For in these moments, wishes unravel, revealing the fragile beauty of shared humanity.
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