A Prison of My Own Making


It feels like prison.

It’s entirely self-serving to write about it now, and you might even catch yourself thinking, ‘Waah waah waah, what a whiner, suck it up,’ but the prison I’ve made for myself is contentment in my mediocrity.

I know I’m not alone in this, and wherever you are, if you are reading this, I too am wading in the waters of missed opportunity and an ‘I don’t care’ attitude; trying to find that one paddle that can hopefully steer me on a course to something better.

It’s not that I was never encouraged to be better, but circumstances just sometimes required the bare minimum, and that’s all I’ve ever put out since joining the work force.

Of course, I was a naïve teen too, thinking that the job for me would of course be glamorous, and serve to feed the Instagram envy of my friends. But reality has a way of backhand slapping you across the face with a just-enough-to-get-me-by kind of life, because honestly, that’s all I’ve ever worked for.

I became the caricature of a late 20something I had always feared of becoming. The 9-to-5 job, the mind-numbing commute and dependence on the Internet, the oftentimes blank stare I catch myself doing when the light dims off from the computer and I see myself in the reflection.

What the hell happened to you?

Yes, I’m privileged to have the means to be on the Internet in the first place, I know, just to clear the air. Privileged with regards to a lot of things, actually. But it has become a hole that I am peering through and seeing all my other peers, with lesser or even harder chances at the opportunities I’ve had, lunge at what came their way and developed it to amazing, amazing lives.

They are off to travel the world, off saving lives, off trying to invent the next big thing that will push humanity forward; and I guess the sinking feeling comes from the realization that I’m just another anonymous bystander waiting to consume whatever they sell me.

My contentment at my mediocrity at every stage of my life became the brick that I laid around me in my own prison.

I can only hope the roof of that prison hasn’t completely covered me whole yet, because I am itching to bust out.



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