Dirty Thirty: Revisited.

Each new day brings me closer to the dirty thirty, as I cannot help but reflect on the way it was supposed to be.  Expectation is truly the root of all heartache, with each failed expectation, one's heart is more susceptible to breaking.  

I could have been a doctor, traveling the world and bringing smiles and cures or even a lawyer, arguing for what is right and sometimes even wrong; I now cringe as I think of the prestige of it all.  

Instead, I am just a contender; my heart and head stronger than the muscles that line the bodies of any professional wrestler.  

My confidence propels me to new heights every single day.  Sometimes I falter and believe the voices in my head that tell me that I could never do better; those are the days that corrode me from the inside out.  

My ambition turns to rust - slowly - as I die another death with every hour that works against me like the poorly oiled gears in life's curious machine.  I run harder to catch myself, count to ten and try again, each breath requires incredible effort as though I am the land that has no command over the mountains that weigh it down and make it tremble. 

 I could have been a pilot, flying fancy free, feeling powerful navigating airplanes and jets over seas, as I reunite friends and family.  

But here I am instead, a boy whose life's path was led astray by his own dismay; my journey different yet still others often find no harm in questioning my ambition, being confused by my drive, like wondering why I am not the same will change the istagnant  sadness in my eyes.  

My battle is mine, this cross is my own to bear yet it becomes unfair when human nature has turned us into competitors waging wars with swords that become sharper the more that they compare.  

The damage already done, all we can do is pray; now that we are conditioned to condemn our fellow humans with labels which cause their self-worth to decay.  Rotting now is the hope that once lived, the faith in humanity scoured by the evil that exists.  

Time and again, I am forced to recall how much worse it could have been, humbled that somehow, I still have it all.  With every basic need of mine being met, I wonder who I am to complain about the uneasy restlessness that disparages my brain.  

My mind was once so pure and devoid of this self-doubt, I was long able to silence others' discouraging shouts; I believed in myself, knowing that I was the master of my domain and then it hit me again, like a derailed passenger train.  Now, I hungrily cling to even the faintest glimmer of hope; desperate for my story to be told as one of triumph and not revolt. 

Closer to thirty, yet useless by society's standards though I know the truth and realize I am more of a man than most.  

I have come eye to eye with death and laughed right  in its face, built myself up from ground zero and made an exultant return to grace.  

Richer than the wealthiest men alive, from the experiences that have added wrinkles in the corners of my eyes, like notches in watches that measure passing time.  

With time, comes healing, responsibility and wisdom, despite the trials I have endured and the seemingly little that I have accomplished, I know that I am far from loathsome.  

Dirty thirty inches closer daily but I know that I am growing; one look at me, and the world will see that I am positively glowing