Recently, I realized: I don’t dream big enough anymore. Part of that is just the function of time; as a child, I wanted to be an astronaut. As a teenager, I wanted to be a famous artist. After I turned 18, I just wanted to be able to buy the things that I wanted without being under threat of serious financial strain. Now, at 31, I can say that I have successfully accomplished the dream I had when I was 18, but…but now what?
I guess part of that is admitting that I let the basics of survival shape my dreams. Or, rather, I let them limit my dreams because who can dream about being a famous artist when being a famous artist doesn’t necessarily mean you have a stable place to live or enough food to eat every day. The shape of society today morphed my dream into wanting to pay rent on time and splurge on hamburgers rather than speaking truth into the ear of millions of people. I think this is what they refer to as “selling out,” especially because writing and my vision for my writing has fallen to the wayside.
I regret this. I feel like I let myself be cheated by a system that I didn’t even really believe in. I kowtowed to someone else’s idea of what I need to do in order to be happy, and here I am, functionally surviving, but spiritually starved. Because my dream was too far away for me to even see, let alone for it to feel real or attainable. So it withered.
I kneel at the grave of a beautiful dream, wondering when the fuck did it even die? Surrounded by the monster of my reality, which is beast that I no longer want but can’t get rid of. Do not ask me if I would die for my dream – the only thing that I could let kill me now is time.