The evolution of dreams

As children we all had a vision of what our life would look like when we grew up. I personally imagined the perfect husband, a nice house, and two point three kids. For any feminist out there that just gagged I also imagined an amazing career. From 1^st to 4^th grade I fashioned myself an artist and I was actually pretty good. Never being one for short changing myself I even envisioned the exclusive school for the arts I’d open. It was to be a towering structure replete with sumptuous gardens and startling murals all designed by the students. Oh and in my young mind I would be providing this safe haven of unfiltered creativity and self-exploration to my students for free via the proceeds of my masterpieces. Noble aspirations if I do say so myself but flash forward to sixth grade and I could barely draw stick figures. That’s the thing about a skill, don’t use it you lose it.

  But that’s okay because by then I’d discovered the rich world of the written word and I’ve been under literature’s spell ever since. That change was easy to accept because the artist in me never died. It manifest itself in the way I fashion my hair, home and makeup. Only as I grew older other changes in my original blueprint for the perfect life were much harder to swallow. By the age of 25 I’d yet to meet prince charming and was finally starting to realize he didn’t exist. I still had my dreams of being a prolific author that changed the world but that was fast turning into a distant fantasy. I could always imagine my success as a writer as long as I didn’t actually do it. Putting my work out there opened me up to the same rejection and disappointment I knew in my personal life with my professional aspirations

  It was more than I could bare. As long as I never reached for that dream I could never fail or learn that I was not good enough. After putting myself out there with men in search of the dream husband and being disappointed I did not think I could survive that same disappointment with my baby, the action adventure novel I’d been dreaming of since my early teens.(Escape from camp 8) Now I know that I will survive. I survived the death of one dream, me as a revered artist, and a new greater dream evolved. I mourned the demise of prince charming, though he never really existed, and I learned to let go of my superficial fantasies of men.

  So if it be my fate to plummet and crash in my hopes to become the next great novelist I will survive. And if you fall short of your childhood or adult dreams so will you. You will roll with punches. Right after you weep like a bitch, kick, scream, and have a full blown mental collapse. In the end if you fail you will develop new dreams and passions and if you got a lick of moxy you’ll make those dreams bow to you. As we evolve, try, fail, and prosper so do our dreams and we just have to deal with it or die.