So here I am again. Trying to write some kind of truth.
There’s this long blog entry sitting in draft mode in my wordpress dashboard, that I’ve been working on for too long. It’s one of those things that seemed like a good idea to write, but when the words come, they seemed disingenuous.
So I’ll try to be honest here.
Does anyone else get really exhausted when following your dreams?
My dream, since I was three, is to be a writer.
Sometimes it’s a love-hate relationship.
(Maybe everything wonderful and beautiful in life is?)
Obviously, the love is greater than the hate. I shouldn’t even use the word hate, maybe it’s a little strong.. how about passionately dislike?
Does anyone else spend all this time creating something incredible and than have moments where you ha… passionately dislike your work?
Day in and day out I am attempting to craft words and sometimes it’s just mentally exhausting. What’s mostly mentally exhausting is the self-judgment and doubt I allow to come in and take over.
Every so often I imagine what my life would look like if I took the easy way out.
You know, spent my time doing something easier. Something I didn’t necessarily care about, but something I didn’t passionately dislike either. Something I could be apathetic about, not use my mind, just sort of melt into it and do it without really struggling through it.
That lazy part of me feels like this would be amazing. Just you know, to chill for a little bit. Work somewhere where I actually got a consistent income, not be broke all the time, save some money, not feel the pressure to do anything noteworthy or spectacular.
After all, my life has been so intense. I am always jumping from one crazy venture to the next.
It’s like I am always thrown into risk without even stopping to ask myself it that what I really want.
Maybe I am being dramatic. I tend to be that way. What was I even writing about?
Oh yah, contemplating killing my dreams for comfort.
Ouch. That one hurt. (The truth does.)
As I get older, it feels harder to hold on to the energy I had as a youth.
And… the faith….
I used to have no problem believing big things.
Lately, it’s like this weird, older, responsible version of myself is suddenly trying to clip my own wings,
“But Brooke, you need to be practical. Don’t assume things are just going to happen for you. You’ve had your adventures, it’s time to settle down a little.”
I used to yell at this woman, try to strangle her, but lately I am staring at her all glossy-eyed and hypnotized saying,
“Yes… maybe you are right… it sounds nice. I am just going to nap a little bit…”
Forty years later, I wake up and my life has passed me by. All the books I wanted to write someday are just figments of my faded imagination. All the places I wanted to go, all the things I wanted to do, are just stories from someone else’s life.
I don’t want to pull a Rip Van Winkle.
I don’t want to live my life asleep.
I don’t want give in to the invisible pressures of “growing up” and letting my dreams die.
But it’s so easy to do. So easy. It starts with the little things. The moments. The way I spend my day. The thoughts I allow in my head.
How do you kill your dreams?
One negative thought at a time.
One justification at a time.
One obeying the voice of “being practical” at a time.
One minute at a time.
So just in the writing this I am relieved. I am relieved I am currently cognitive enough to realize this as I the words flow out. I am relieved I am brave enough to put this on my blog.
Because the very act of letting these thoughts out is an act of rebellion against that part of me that would slowly let my dreams whither up and die.
I won’t.
I won’t.
I won’t.
Because if I do, what’s the point of even existing?
“Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly, Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams go, Life is a barren field, Frozen with snow.” -Langston Hughes
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