Nine-Two-Five-Eight-One

Blank screen.
White sheet of unblemished paper.
Pen clipped on the fingers of a numb hand.
Empty ceilings.
Clouds of thoughts.
Endless dreams.
The uncertainty of tomorrow.

I lay flat on the bare floor in between sheets and a saddled cushion underneath my body as I realized that I was back on my senses after a deep slumber. It was a Monday, and it was almost 7 a.m. when I felt helpless and failed to escape the comfort of the bed. I wasn’t planning anything on how I would crank the gears of my schedule on this very particular day.
My mom just sent me a text message and didn’t say anything unusual except for typing the words saying I was born twenty five years ago at around 1 o’clock in the afternoon. She deemed it imperative to share me the thought that suddenly flashed back on her mind, what a big head I had when she bore the excruciating pain of pushing me out into the world.
Until I decided to go on holiday five days ago. I certainly would’ve thought to just go anywhere but the usual place called work. I needed a break from the monotony of doing similar things over and over again, a refresher, a time-out, so I could concentrate and just simply sit down and think.
Not so long ago during my classroom years, I was accustomed to being called young from among my batch since I started embracing school at the age of 5. During those days, public schools would only permit students who are at age 6 or 7 at the most. More peculiarly, a child is permitted to enroll when he/she can reach the ears opposite the hands. I ended up graduating a 5-year engineering course at the age of 20.
I am, indeed, getting old. I can’t deny it this time that I’ve reached the silver anniversary of my existence and it pains me to realize that I’ve accomplished just a fraction of my goals.
Tracing the past three years made me just feel subdued. I felt I wasted a lot of time in doing something else I can’t rewind and correct. My goals remain to be dreams waiting to be realized like a cocoon stuck on a tree that is delayed for almost eternity before blooming into a gorgeous butterfly.
It made me raise the question on what was I made for. What is my purpose in this world? I’ve thrown this question to someone else sometime ago but at the very moment I thought of it, it sure hit me big time.
The answer appears to be unseen while it seems that I still have to weave what is left unsewed for the garments of my aims.

Blank screen.
White sheet of unblemished paper.
Pen clipped on the fingers of a numb hand.
Empty ceilings.
Clouds of thoughts.
Endless dreams.
The uncertainty of tomorrow.