Sometimes I feel like a little boy in the toys aisle again. I remember looking up at the shiny cars and lorries, the large radio-controlled ones with the gaudy colors, my heart almost bursting out of my chest at the thought of owning one, even for a minute. How badly I wanted one of them, wanted to turn it on and put it next to my cheek and smell the plastic and feel the whir of its motors. But, there was never enough money. Not that we were poor, no, not by a long stretch. There were, and still are, things called priorities and toys have never been one of them. Maybe that is why even today gaming consoles do not get me excited. That part of me was beaten out by life. Only buy what you need was (and still is) the rule. I digress.
I feel like that is still where I am, that I am still that little boy, longing and gazing at my dreams (rather, their fruition), reaching out for them but they are just out of reach, a hair’s breadth beyond my fingers, like I am living on the periphery of my own life and I am yet to explore its full depth. It is a discomfiting place to be: on the outside looking in at one’s own life, watching it like a slow movie, one that gets you excited in anticipation of the coming moment, always hoping that the next minute will be the pivot, when everything will finally make sense and all the preceding events, hurts and pleasures, will gel into a semblance of meaning. This is where I find myself. Waiting to exhale.
The scariest aspect of this is the possibility that I will remain a dreamer of some sort. You know the type: that middle-aged guy who is not doing too badly, or too well, and who still hangs on to the vain hope that someday his big break will come, that one day he will show them. It is this concept of one day that gives me Goosebumps. Today is also one, day; it is someday, so is tomorrow. And so is the day twenty years from today. The question is, do we have tomorrow? Our capacity for optimism is unparalleled. We believe that we will have time to do all the things we want. And, perhaps, in this way, we are all at the edge; of ourselves, of our potentials. There is quite a bit we can do and achieve in our time here, not that it will matter over the great scheme of the universe, but the least we can do is leave our marks, however tiny. Perhaps, all of us are on the edges of our own lives, on the outside looking in, wondering what could be.