Some days, I believe that being a dreamer will be my undoing. I put much of myself into “what if’s” and “could I ever’s” that never come to pass, or that do come to pass without any real result or consequence. Then I carry it—-the sorrow, the disappointment, the feelings of failure and frustration. Seems there was a time in life when the doing of a thing in and of itself was enough to satisfy me, but I wonder if those days are gone. I wonder if I should stop dreaming.
I simply don’t know.
More often than not, I look at my so-called writing career and see more folly than anything else. 3 Blogs, including this one, never hit critical mass; hours of “social networking” has amounted to few, if any, new contacts. Endless drafts of future works get finished but never see the light of day. Rejection and failure seem to be two feet on the pedals of my writing dream. I tell myself, “The next effort will be better than this one”, and I continue moving forward. But I now look around and think, maybe I’m on a stationery bike.
I would be lying if I said I was looking at my path in a vacuum. I’m not. One can’t help but see others’ varied successes all around them. Between social media and the 24-hour news cycle, I sometimes feel that everyone is finding their way, getting their break, or making it happen, except me.
Frankly, I hate feeling that way. I hate that any celebratory congratulations are tempered by an inner voice that says, “I wish I could taste that victory”. In fairness, this is a step in the right direction. Once upon a time, I would have thought, “It should be me, not them.” Now it’s just, “will it ever be me?” I’d love to get to the place where it’s just, “Congratulations, in this moment I can be wholly vested in your success and happiness without any thought of self.” That’s unlikely this side of heaven.
So why bother writing this? What’s the point of admitting to selfishness and disappointment in light of ongoing effort and little result?
Because the thing about being a dreamer is, none of that really changes things—-at least not for me, thankfully. At least, not yet. In spite of it all, I hope. I dream. I still think, “This time I’ll do it better. This time it’ll happen. My best work is yet to come.” Folly? Maybe. But there’s worse pursuits to have, and as much as failure hurts, living without dreams would be a nightmare.