Dreams, Giving Up, and my Thoughts

I feel very mixed up. 

Tumblr indicates that learning to live with what you get is what growing up or real life is like. Or is it more that sometimes having a job and money is not inferior to your dreams? But like…I’ve always tried to live with small dreams. Small desires. Small goals. Keep thing small. Be quiet. Non-obtrusive. Live quietly. I just want to be stable and have financial security. I’ve accepted that any job I have will be low level and maybe not the best but it will be better than nothing. 

At the same time… 

I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just…I don’t know. Like I never had any big dreams. The most I ever wanted was to experience new things, live a little. But that was six years ago and I still haven’t gotten to do that. So it’s not like I can have less of a dream or that I’ll have to settle for less of a dream, but I’ve accumulated myself to the veracity of drudgery. Of a future that is hard and probably with money and hopefully some security. It’ll be the life I see other people my age living. I’ll be like everyone else. But that’s the story of my life. Be like everyone else. I hear and read other people’s stories — about college, about work, about their art, about their relationships, about money, about bills, about mental health — and I absorb that. That’s the right way to be exist, you know? And I’ve never existed right from the day I was born. 

But what do I want? Or more on point: is it okay to dream for big things? Tumblr says not to. I tell myself not to, either to ensure I don’t do better at things than my twin, I relish in failure (at least when it comes to my creative writing), or I’ve never had anything I wanted.

If I’m honest the only time I burn with any meaning is when I love someone. That and environmental subjects. 

All I’ve ever wanted is a quiet life. I also wanted to create pictures with words. That’s why I decided to be a writer. Not to tell stories (although I love them), but to create visual art with words. Like animation with words. It doesn’t have to tell a story or have engaging or deep characters, but it has to have some kind of art to it. At least that was my initial impulse. But if I could write a story that matters to someone that would…that would be grand. But is that possible? Is that something I could hope for and work toward! Is that something I could aim for? Is that allowed? Is it okay to want something?

I guess I’ve never had any strong goals, except experience life (“I want to see the world and write a book about it!”). I can get by on gliding but working hard… I give up so easily. If something was too hard or made me anxious or felt like too much work, I always had the option of backing out. If anything at all bothered me growing up, I could just stop and not do it. Usually. I only did things because I liked doing them. I think this originated with being a preemie. Like a really critical preemie. Like I don’t have functional esophagus preemie. (I got better, though I still got to make sure I don’t get clogged on certain food textures.) The problem was that it made my mom not want me (or my sister) to have any difficulties while we were growing up. The problem now is that this instilled in me an easy-out card. Damn.

Of course that doesn’t explain why I have no belief in my writing ever really being published, why rejections relieve me, or whether it’s okay to have a concrete dream.

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