Crap! I am the Prodigal Son

When I ponder the multitudes of life's questions and paradoxes, I always chuckle to myself when faced with the irony of my own short-sightedness. The power of the human spirit, our transcendental ability of self-reflection, while being a characteristic unique to us, it nevertheless remains a perennial example of our imperfection. Empowering as it is to have the capacity to stand outside temporality, be it surveying history, or making predictions about the future, the human mind runs the risk of losing track of its own limitations and thus falls into the grave sin of hubris.
In my own life, I’ve often stood at the vestibule of past and future, contemplating the “what ifs” of the past that seem relevant to the future, trying my very hardest to not repeat history’s mistakes. But despite my best efforts, inevitably, I fail. It is in the realization of my failure in this area that the relevance of the Prodigal Son parable has come to my attention. Though I’ve always understood this parable to be significant, its meaning has always stood at an arms distance away; the emphasis placed on the jubilation of the father upon the return of the son rather than on the son’s delinquency. Perhaps it is a case of the over-anxious reader seeking the final denouement, the “happy ending,” rather than seeing that what leads to the climax is the crucial starting point；but whatever the case may be, I’ve always enjoyed the celebrated return of the son, rather than the truth of his ineptitude and failure.
“I am the prodigal son,” these words shock me into paralysis; the full weight of its truth causes bitter rage and animosity, disrupting the delicate fibers of my soul. Success is good; it makes me smile. Failure sucks; it triggers the gag reflex. Being the prodigal son carries with it the sting of failure. But whom have I failed? Myself? No, my instincts tell me otherwise. The Prodigal Son, in the parable, is a failure not to himself, but to his father. “I am the prodigal son, I have failed my father,” reciting this brings back flashbacks of countless Asian American stereotypes that I’ve spent my whole life pushing away. My father’s exact words were, “I am so disappointed… I feel like I’ve wasted my time with you.” In the parable, it seems as if the son has the fortune of facing failure without confronting any acerbic remarks from a disappointed parent; but unfortunately, my case is more like the “Guilt Tripped Prodigal Son.” I wonder if the son felt remorse for letting down his father; I know I sure do. But the point at which I must relinquish the parable’s jurisdiction in my situation is the very same point at which I choose to focus on following what Coelho calls, “The Personal Legend.” You see, I am the Prodigal Son because I’ve swindled my father’s time, dashed his hopes and stomped on what my mother called, “his greatest joy in life.” As seemingly over-dramatic as this painted image appears, such is the drama that plays itself out in my head. A father living his dream through the son feels the pain of failure in hearing his son’s unwillingness to live his dream. It is a pain once removed and twice felt; having one’s own dreams dashed is one thing, but to find hope again in another, only to have it dashed as well is a pain that few can bear.
The guilt of the son tears his innards apart; how can he left his father down? But the existential calling, the beckoning of one’s Personal Legend, is equally powerful, if not more so. It is not easy to live the life of the Prodigal Son especially when plagued with a guilty conscience, but then again life is short and one has to seize the chance for happiness if it presents itself.