Future. Wasn’t it supposed to be an abstract idea? Something full of hopes and dreams and all the rosy promises. Having a dream was enough. Like, yeah, I’m going to be a writer with shit loads of money or own a magical chocolate factory with my personal little orange people work-force and have a house with a room just for books and an Olympic sized swimming pool
and maybe, John O’ Callaghan as my husband. When all the little girls my age were dreaming of being the future Miss Universe, I was hoping I’d be a space scientist and finally figure out what lies in the vast emptiness beyond the skies. I wanted to be a fashion designer, an artist, a singer (so what if I can’t sing?), a dancer. I wanted to be a tattoo artist. I wanted to invent something cool and have my picture in Physics books of the future for my great-great-great-great-great kids to draw moustaches on. I wanted to be everything I could be and more. I wanted to be anything but ordinary. I swear, I had the perfectly clear idea of my future. I knew what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be. I swear. Until, now.
And now, when I need them the most, my dreams desert me. All those crazy, possibly impossible dreams. Right when the time to work on them is here. Right when the future waits for me, in all its uncertain glory. It’s waiting for me to make my move. So, what do I do now?
I write a stupid blog post about it. I laugh for no reason at all. I get mad at people for pointing out the obvious mistakes I know I’m making, and I love them for pointing it out anyways. I crib to everyone I know about how my life sucks and be glad that those people are in my life to listen to my crap. I listen to music and dance while I solve shit loads math problems.
I work, and I work hard. I dream and I dream a little more. I hope and I give it all I’ve got.