Success is a mirage.  It’s that fabled oasis in the Lut desert “you think” you see after a long trek in the vapid, scorching sun.  You stand there wetting your parched lips, cracked like jagged chert, flaking off as your tongue probes each dry, acrid crevice for moisture, but falling short.  Sweat drools down the brow of your face and the vulnerable mind warps your sight into seeing what it wants to believe.  Cherry red blossoms in a sunburn burgeoning from cheek to forehead and everywhere between.  That keen sense of want, that vision, it keeps you driven, yearning its utter refreshment and the feeling of accomplishment.

The unrelenting heat from that languorous flame glowing like hot iron in the sky makes you thirsty, seeking water and its undying quench.  Much like success, that oasis you saw skirting the horizon along the yellow dunes, vividly mapped out in your head, doesn’t really exist; it’s a hollow fa├žade, an illusion.  

When you finally reach that lush smokescreen of shangri-la, you face sheer disappointment.  It’s just a mere figment of your imagination, dust, skewed perception.  The desired puddle you sought out like gold is but small grains of sand, tiny, and meaningless in your venture.  

When you reach that point in life where do you go from there?  I never really figured it out.  I have started to worry much less about that fantasy in my head, the finish line, and the label we choose to define our significance.  In the end, it doesn’t matter.  It’s wasted emotion.  I’d rather just live.  I’m not successful; I’m alive.  I’m free.  I’m happy.

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