Empires and Favorite Colors
High Performance, Zero Velocity
On the outside, I am a Ford Mustang GT. I’ve got the 5.0L V8 potential, the chrome trophies on the shelf, and that ‘Dark Horse’ energy that everyone expects from the first-born. I am built to redline, to outrun every expectation, to be the one who leads the pack into the unknown. To anyone watching, I am the definition of “moving fast.” My life is a highlight reel of medals, business milestones, and the kind of “well dones” that people use to build pedestals.
But if you look closer, you’ll see the glitch. My life isn’t a highway; it’s a series of things that “must hang.”
Notice the wordplay?
It’s the hinge where my power meets my paralysis.
The expectations of being the eldest child must hang over my head
like a low, concrete ceiling.
I am the “blueprint,”
the experimental prototype for my family,
meant to be the solid one who never stalls.
The laundry must hang on the line while I force myself to study for a degree
I could pass in my sleep.
My business goals as a studentpreneur must hang in the balance
while I sit in the dark, my face lit by the blue glare of a screen.
I scroll through my notifications and see the irony. People are tagging me, calling me a “genius,” a “visionary,”
They talk about what I’ve done
The empires I’m “destined” to build.
But imagine it for a second.
Imagine the heat of a 480-horsepower engine being used to power a toaster.
What kind of “genius” is smart enough to scale a business
but too paralyzed to scale the walls of his own routine?
I am doomscrolling through a digital graveyard of “takes”
Watching people argue about gender inequality with words they can’t even define.
It’s uninteresting noise, but I’m too tired to change the station.
I am a Mustang being praised for my paint job
while my engine is seized by the salt of the everyday.
Even my “love life” is just another thing that must hang in the gray.
She says she wants someone “caring and loving.”
She wants the poems, the Prince Charming act,
the soft words that soothe the day.
And look, I can do all that — I can play the part.
But what’s the fun in it?
What happened to the fire of conquering the world, one empire at a time?
What kind of love is it without expansion?
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We go on dates, and she hates it when I ask her where she wants to be in five years.
She’d rather answer questions about her “favourite colour.”
I thought dating someone older meant I’d find a co-pilot,
a partner for the heist,
someone who wanted to build.
But you know what?
Maybe age really is just a number,
and I’m just sitting in a parked car with someone who is satisfied with the view
while I’m starving for the horizon.
The worst part is the physical ache of it.
I’m sitting here, and I can’t even find enough room to stretch.
But then again, not like there’s enough room in a Mustang anyway.
It’s a beautiful cockpit, leather-trimmed and high-tech,
But it’s tight.
It’s designed for the forward-lean,
the white-knuckle grip on the wheel,
and the G-force of a launch.
It wasn’t built for sitting in a driveway.
When you’re parked, the interior starts to feel like a cage.
My legs are restless, my mind is pacing, and the walls of my “success” are closing in.
I have all this power, but I’m folding myself into a space that’s getting smaller every day.
I don’t need rest. I don’t need escape. I need stakes.
I need a storm that will sweat me,
pressure me,
and wake me from this lethargy.
I need the kind of challenge that reminds me why I was ever moving in the first place.
I crave thrill, adventure, and raw exploration.
I want to touch the sky and feel the grit of the world beneath my fingernails again.
I’ve thought about the small chaos
The kind of prank where I take control of the public address system during class just to hear my own voice shatter the silence.
But c’mon… I need to think big. I need to think well.
I want to leave this place, both mentally and physically.
I want to trade this gold-plated cage for a frontier that hasn’t been mapped yet.
I am winning on paper, but I’m losing the race against time.
This is ennui:
the terrifying realization that I’ve built a gold-plated cage out of my own achievements.
I was born to be a Mustang, but right now, I am living a life that must hang in the stillness, waiting for a road that is wide enough for the roar I’m keeping inside.
