Plotting a course toward destiny isn’t as romantic as it sounds. Some days, I feel like I’m walking on half-baked schemes rather than solid plans—improvising hope on cracked pavement. There’s a “field of dreams,” sure, but not the kind where the grass is greener. Instead, it’s overrun with the weeds of disappointment—unwelcome thoughts I have to keep plucking from my mind before they take root. As I try to find cover under the so-called tree of life, but even its shade feels uncomfortable. Too warm. Too uncertain. And rest doesn't come so easy when your thoughts are always so heavy.
And tell me—if someone else’s life came with a perfect promo, polished and so promising, would you still blame me for my FOMO? I mean, what if their dream life is the one I was supposed to live? What if I just missed the sign-up link? To catch myself trying to live out the picture of someone else’s success, because this life of mine? It’s painfully YOLO. And I try to keep my horses steady, but envy isn’t exactly a stable creature. It wears me down, day by day, like I’m stitched together by Polo—fashionable on the outside, but worn-out underneath.
Failure, though? Now that’s the real villain. It doesn’t just sting— it lingers, like emotional PTSD. It makes you flinch at the idea of trying again, as if effort itself is a pointless punishment. And fingers? Oh, fingers love to point—especially at people who haven’t gotten far. But when it comes time to point out themselves, they suddenly feel too short.
Still, I keep my fingers crossed, quietly hopeful I might achieve something real—something I truly want as a need. It’s a bright hope, exhausting in its intensity. But even in darkness, there’s always the flicker of a new light waiting to be found.