I turned 40 this year. What the hell happened?
Just yesterday I was eighteen—cocky, newly graduated, ego swelling when Dad gifted me that 1978 black Pontiac Firebird. Huge Phoenix blazing across the hood. Man, that car screamed 1970s rolling down my street.
Didn’t matter. Life stretched endless ahead of me. Money jingling from Taco Bell drive-thru shifts. Basketball at my park since freshman year. Parties. Getting drunk, getting stupid. Pissing in streets at 3 AM, waking up lost, not knowing where the hell I was. Irresponsible? Absolutely. But God, it was fun.
Friends everywhere—people to chill with until sunrise.
Now at 40? None of that remains. Just obligations. Work. Contributing to someone else’s dream while mine collect dust.
What have I done with my life? Nothing. Still shackled to a job offering no satisfaction, trapped by the very paycheck and benefits that promised freedom.
But at 40, in this quiet cage of discontent, the spark is not lost—it burns brighter. This milestone year, a fierce new dawn.
The restless ember of the dream that once stretched endless now roars: the future is not yet etched in stone. There is still breath to reshape the clay, still time to seek the truest purpose, and build a legacy that outlives the chains.
