When I was little, I wanted to be a firefighter like my uncle and my grandfather. Then I wanted to be an actress and a veterinarian and an astronaut. When I was seven, I declared that I was going to be an artist. I wanted to study at the Art Institute of Chicago. I had big dreams and I chased them until I couldn't anymore. I chased them all the way to Savannah and back, and when that didn't work—when the US's supposed education system failed me, I relied on social media and word of mouth to make my dreams come true.
Now, I'm left wondering: when did I let my dreams die? I talked to Justin about this last night, and he said, "Your dreams haven't died. They've just changed as you have changed." I hugged him as he told me his dreams. Growing old together, having our own place, maybe in 4-5 years having babies. "You can still chase your old dreams if you want," he said. "But sometimes it's better to find a new dream."
Thinking about all of the different dreams I have had, and seeing how in some way or another, all of them have failed is the most disenchanting fact of life. It makes me feel like all there is to life is getting up every morning, going to work at a job that you hate, so that you can make money to pay your bills so that you live, and then one day it's all over: You die and your loved ones have to pick up the pieces. Maybe it's just my grief talking because I miss my dad, but there has to be more to life than this.
Thinking about my dreams makes me wonder about my past selves, and how much I have made an impact in other people's lives. I think we all just want to be remembered after we're gone. We all want to leave some sort of legacy behind. The hard part is trying to pave the way for the achievements you want to be remembered for.
Time to find some new dreams.