It’s strangely surreal reminiscing on the dreams of my youth that I’ve now long lost sight of and have begun to perceive so differently. Innocent dreams that were once practical and full of promise, now ever fleeting as I grow and mature into my 20-year-old self who’s steadily changing and shifting into different directions, yearning for both fulfillment and happiness. I ask myself: What will I make of my future? Will I be successful? Will I leave my mark? Achieve great undertakings? These questions prod my mind daily and leave me feeling both eager and anxious (but mostly anxious) for the future. It’s unfair how dreams become so deceptive as an adult, how everything suddenly becomes a sign, a foreshadow of the future, a reason to lament and ponder obsessively. I miss the dreams of my youth and their immunity to misfortune and defeat. I miss that sense of purity and the promise of reward. It certainly has become a battle of idealism and realism for me these days.
Then again, I guess we all grow up a little too fast.
To quote Shakespeare:
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
Somewhere between finding myself and falling into a rut I lost my ability to be a part of things in life. I raised the drawbridge of my mental self. I barricaded myself deep in the depths of my mind. I built a moat between myself and the world.
But there’s the nights. Those exhilarating, lively nights that come so little during the year. I seize the opportunity to engage in conversations with complete strangers, I loosen myself and come back to life. I allow myself to be part of something.
Then it’s all gone.
Reality sinks in.
My social circle narrows.
I give up.
I wish I didn’t constantly feel at war with myself. I wish I could blend in, expand my social circle, spread out, live. But instead I dwell in the confines of my head.
Does anyone understand?