Generic

• Romy Keppel, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2014

When he was four, he was going to be an astronaut. His favourite toy was a tiny red rocket, and he carried it everywhere. He loved stars and planets, and fluorescent ones adorned his bedroom ceiling. He dreamed of one day reaching out and clasping a star in his hands, and of meeting the man in the moon. When he did, he would ask the man what he thought of Earth.

When he was nine, he was going to be a pilot. On his first plane flight, he sat in a hard plastic seat, barely aware of the people around him, and watched the sky for hours, in awe as the clouds past by. He knew then that he could gaze into the eternal blue atmosphere for a lifetime, and never regret a moment.

When he was thirteen, he was going to be a novelist. He loved the worlds that books could take him to, and he would spend nights running plots and ideas through his head. He knew that one day, he could write worlds of his own, and inspire other people to do great things, just like he had been.

When he was eighteen, he was going to be a doctor. He saw his friends break their bones and hold in their pain whilst their hearts slowly broke, keeping their aches and bruises secret from those who cared the most. He saw old women afflicted with rheumatism, and young children crying as they struggled through chemotherapy, enduring surgery on their tiny bodies. On the day his mother lost her cheerful smile along with her heartbeat, he knew he was going to be a doctor. He was, he would, because he tired of watching people suffering.

Now he is nearly thirty, and he would give anything to be an astronaut. He goes to work in a grey office, on the middle floor of an equally grey building. He himself has begun to grey, and amalgamate with his dreary surroundings, becoming no more than another brick in the wall. He wonders what happened to his life. He lost his toy rocket years ago, and he has become afraid of flying since. He is no longer inspired to pen his thoughts, and he withdrew from medical school in his first year. He doesn’t love anymore, and neither does he dream. His days are filled with nothing but monotony and boredom, and he spends them waiting for sunshine to reach back into his marrow, and set off light bulbs in his mind. But the sunshine never comes; perhaps it never will. He has landed in a very common crisis; all of his individuality, his creativity, his spark, has become mainstream. His energy and potential, all the nights spent dreaming of his future, and waiting impatiently for his moment to shine, all has gone to waste. He was going to be an astronaut. He was going to be extraordinary. He was going to be unforgettable, but, instead, all he became was generic.