The Convention

The convention was in town. The annual convention when more than 3000 representatives from across the world gather together to exchange stories, hear information , and get inspiration. Everybody likes it -- but me.

You see, I was in the same system, or worked in the same "corporation." But I dropped out over 20 years ago. Since then, it has grown by leaps and bounds. And I have diminished. I have traveled here and there horizontally, but I have not grown vertically. And when I see my old friends returning from the field, each one with decades of good history within them, I'm jealous, I feel bereft, and I mourn for the part of me that could have been and did not.

It's hard to explain this -- or perhaps it's really not necessary. But try as I might, I have never really made peace and come to terms with the way my life turned out. I live under a gloomy gray cloud of "what could have been." I think of all the things I could have accomplished, or should have accomplished, and didn't. And the time that has slipped through my fingers will never return.

So when the convention comes to town, there is a part of me deep inside that cringes. I keep away, make sure not to see the guys, I wait for the storm to pass -- the weekend to end. But deep down I am living with the convention every minute that it is here. And suffering inside.

This is not good. I cannot spend the remaining time of my life ruminating over what could have been. I'm doing myself no justice, nor am I helping anyone with those feelings.

Life is a book which each one of us writes. Sometimes, some of the middle chapters don't work out the way we want them to. Sometimes the story runs awry, and the book weighs heavy and gloomy in the middle. But like it or not, we remain the author. Our children will read our book, and they do every day, for insights as to what lies ahead in their own life. I owe it to them to not let the ending be gloomy, too.

I have to reinterpret the story so that I can live with myself. Because sometimes the story is not as bad as the way I read it. And I urgently need this story to be a success, and to be meaningful. Very meaningful. It's up to me to write, and edit, and interpret, and rewrite where necessary. I cannot let this fail. After all, it is my life that I am writing about.