There’s this certain guilt, that has come to be attached, with the act of dreaming.
That’s probably because of the terrible uncertainty of the future and the essential transitory nature of the present. There’s all this pressure that clings itself to where we’ll end up, what number will sail upon the violent tide of our marksheets, which city’s name will assume an identity even greater than our own; that we feel that dreaming or even saying any thing about something we don’t already have, will place us under this giant block of labels that we must associate ourselves with, until we die.
“But you wanted to be an archaeologist, right? How did you end up at that business school?”
I see, I’ve done the same with myself. I’ve stopped talking about my plans; heck, I’ve stopped making them from the fear of not being able to live them.
“You will end up doing all the things you wish to do and I suppose, there’s a MAJOR to-do list before you turn 40 anyway,” somebody had said to me, before leaving. But no, there isn’t. There’s no list. There was, though, I’m glad to admit it. I wasn’t always this dead, this scared, this unsure or this tremble-some.
My heart did shoot puffs of fire once.
And now, when I’m closest to the proclamation of this uncertainty, I have begun to feel tired of it’s fear.
We MUST dream on. I firmly believe.
Two years ago, if I were a painting, I’d be the most vibrant kaleidoscopic vision, leaking outbursts of psychedelia. Today? Well today I’d make a banal zebra-crossing of a painting. And I don’t want to be, A ZEBRA-CROSSING.
I wanted to travel, I wanted to write, become an author even, I wanted to roam every abbey that channeled itself across the world map. Giving an interview was at the top of my bucket-list. I wanted to taste, eat, drink, sing, dance and inspire, and do all kinds of things.
Where did that person go?
How dare I blame the world for being unpleasant to me, when I’m so unpleasant myself?
But I’m done; done dealing with my loss, done dealing with the mess I’ve made.
No matter what the future holds for any of us, how dare we let the dreamer inside, die?
These dreams, oh these dreams are my mint cocoa cupcakes, I must have all of them.
The world is waiting for me, at this grand celebration.
And I forgot, I was invited?
I have to walk down the streets of Paris, streets studded with tiny glowballs hanging by the branches, lights that dress the whole city. Oh, I must go!
I must fall in love with a poet, and assuming the blithering fools that poets are (highlighting that underneath falling in love, lies the artistic motive of being hurt), I will eventually get my heart broken. This will be followed by black tales of alcoholism and slow waltzes at dark hours; dark hours ignited by the cigarettes in Chicago. I must be there outside that 80s club, when a young prostitute tells me how she was dragged into ‘a very promising trade.’
Oh and I just HAVE to attend that concert in a mini-bar in London, featuring that local band that plays on Saturdays.
I have to brew beer in Germany and spill it on someone, I get into a fight with.
I have to hear a Greek bride whine about how she feels overdressed at her wedding.
I must be there, for all those stories.
I will be there.
The world is waiting to be seen. (Did I mention Broadway?)
Seven billion people, that equals seven billion worlds to be seen. Oh and guess how many lives you have!
-insert sarcasm about how riches are the greatest thing, ever-
It’s four in the morning, I feel so artistic that I might as well drown in red wine.
About The Author
18 years old. Writer. Theatre Artist. As a writer I don’t restrict myself at all and experiment with genres as much as I can. Writing for me has always been about introducing a new line of thought, or just something to ponder upon. More precious than the content, is the feeling that comes along with it. And I hope to give my readers the same heartening experience.