I feel helpless. I feel there’s nothing I can do to change my life. The damage is done. I’m old. Too old to change, too old to make any improvements, My place has been in mediocrity, ever since I was young. Yes I’m smart, I know I am, my dad tells me so, and severally, I have proven to myself and others that I am smart. But that’s all. I have nothing to show for my smarts. I thought when you are smart you figure out things. Your figure out what you need to do to go from point a to b and you get there. I thought being a bit smart was supposed to get me to a level above many others. But the ceiling of mediocrity is what I can’t get past. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I read inspirational books and watch videos that put me on the chair’s edge. I’ve had moments of deep thought, followed by serious planning and focused execution. But in the end, I end up nowhere. 1 week down the line I’m the same old relic who has nothing to show for himself. I’m certain I know what it takes to be great, I think I have amassed enough advice to turn a school dropout into a millionaire, and enough motivational speeches to turn a high school football team into world cup winners. But my life has not the slightest resemblance to the life that I envisage. I don’t know what to do. I’m not depressed. I can’t allow myself to be depressed. I don’t believe it’s a real thing but I’m not tempting fate to give me a dose of it. I just don’t want to ever use depression as an excuse for non-action. Yet still, I am saddened by the course of my life. Where is it headed to? Oh, I know! It’s headed to mediocrity. 50 years from now, I’ll be a 76-year-old man, almost as old as my political idol, Baba. Sad devastated, and bitter because the things I wanted to achieve so bad , would have eloped my hands. Oh, fvk! I’ll be cussing all day. Seated on a stool outside my decent but small upcountry bungalow, I’ll look into the distance, and tears will roll down my cheeks as I come to terms with the fact that I have wasted all my life. My gloomy face, typical as always will paint the picture of a man thrashed hard by life, yet in reality, I let it do so as I enjoyed my comfort zone. My peers will be driving machines, some, flying cars, things I’ve wished for all my life and admired every day. But then, as a 76-year-old I’ll know that my time to make money so I can drive these machines will have gone. I wish I could at least include a scene where I get a bit of consolation from my dear wife, but I don’t want to picture her in my failure. Surely she deserves better. And my kids, hopefully living decent lives, will go on with their business, unbothered, and unconcerned of their old man who once held them in their arms when they couldn’t hurt a fly even unintentionally. And of course, I will well deserve this because, for all my junior years, I never saw the need to call my parents. And the legacy I once dreamed about, of becoming the biggest employer in history, a man who created enough job opportunities to change the course of nations, that legacy will remain a dream. Like the many thrilling daydreams of being a freak of nature that could play any sport better than anyone else. Or the fantasies of being the Kenyan Chris Brown, a well-behaved version, who had all the girls he ever wanted. Or even the dreams about being an actual superhuman with powers of heroes in Marvel and DC movies, but in real life. Oh I almost forgot my fantasy about discovering Bitcoin when it was less than 1 Kenyan cent, and then buying a hundred thousand of them only to become a dollar billionaire when it hit a million shillings? Well, if there were Olympics for dreams’ outrageousness, I’d dust Michael Phelps as the most decorated Olympian. But guess what, I’m a 76-year-old man, who decided to spend most of my life fantasizing rather than choosing a path and living by it. Because I was afraid. Afraid that it wasn’t fun enough. Afraid it wouldn’t make me a billionaire, afraid that I would reach a point where I don’t wanna do it again and hate it. Just like I did with my university course in civil engineering. Did 5 years of studies and 1 year of internship only to drop the degree certificate and experience like a bag of potato chips. This pattern has kept on repeating itself though out my life. I never mastered the courage to choose a path and sacrifice everything else. I’ve always been after the next big thing. I’ve enjoyed harboring the Shiny-object Syndrome disease. It’s like an addiction that has followed me through life. It gives me the dopamine hit I need to push through life. What my long-lost colleagues got from weed and alcohol, I got from Shiny-Object Syndrome. And now as a 76-year-old wrinkly man, struggling with my fimbo to get up so I can walk back to my dingy depressing house, I’ll know my time is probably done. When I get to my worn-out sofa that has been collecting dust for decades, take a seat, I’ll look up, and make a short prayer to God. Father, my time has come, I know I have failed, take this cup of embarrassment from me, let me join my predecessors in the afterlife. Indeed, I’m helpless!