Broken Dreams
It’s 3 AM, and the brandy has made me restless again. I find myself trapped in the same relentless cycle, longing for the elusive embrace of sleep, only to be met with the mocking laughter of my mind. Could it be the unseen demons I grapple with, lurking in the shadows of my consciousness? I reach for another bottle, buried amidst my archives, seeking solace in its numbing embrace. As the vape fills the air with wisps of smoke, I am reminded of the weight of my existence — a diary of a 30-something, adrift without direction or purpose.
I am a bartender trying to make a living with the meager wages I earn. My job involves mixing cocktails and serving drinks, which feels like a never-ending struggle against despair. I often take shots of tequila to brace myself for the endless parade of customers who come to the bar with broken hearts and shattered dreams. Some are seeking refuge from the pain of loss, while others are trying to drown their sorrows in the betrayal of love. Meanwhile, I am haunted by the specter of my unfulfilled aspirations.
After spending three decades on this earth, I find myself still tied to the ruins of shattered dreams. I had hoped to have achieved stability and purpose by now, including having a loving partner, a family, a car, and a home. However, I am now a stranger in an unfamiliar land, drifting aimlessly in a sea of unfulfilled potential, clutching onto a degree that has become a mere memory of my past ambitions.
I am plagued by a gnawing sense of regret and wonder where I went wrong. The feeling grows stronger every passing day, threatening to consume me like a relentless tide. To escape it, I often find myself seeking refuge in fleeting distractions like scrolling through Instagram. It allows me to be a silent witness to the grand spectacle of other people’s lives, as they showcase their curated successes. However, beneath the façade of celebration, I can’t help but feel a simmering jealousy. It’s a harsh reminder of all that I am not and all that I may never be.
I turn to weed, to alcohol, to anything that might offer respite from the relentless onslaught of despair. With each puff, each sip, I descend deeper into the labyrinth of my anguish, grappling with unanswered prayers and unspoken longings. My father’s absence looms large, a specter of what might have been, while the memory of lost love cuts deeper than any wound.
I hate this world, this cruel and unforgiving crucible of broken dreams. I hate that I must play by the rules, only to watch as others leapfrog ahead on the backs of their own deceit. I can barely afford to put food on my own table, yet I am expected to provide for others, to be the beacon of hope in a sea of despair.
What is my purpose, if not to suffer in silence, to toil away in obscurity, a forgotten casualty of a world indifferent to my plight? As I drift into the embrace of unconsciousness, I am haunted by the specter of tomorrow — another day, another smile, another facade to maintain in the relentless pursuit of survival.
