As a child, I always thought myself to be the dreamer. Never living in this world, not really. Always imagining, creating stories. You think of a lot of things when you spend time alone. For the most part that’s what I did, although I had a few friends.
It’s been a long time since I was a child. It’s been a long time since I had close friends. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to look through the world with an idealistic lens.
But now I think myself more as a realist. A cynical realist. A fearful realist. One that is afraid to soar too close to the sun, in fear of getting burnt again.
I no longer have faith in dreams. I already had one implode on me (more or less) – wouldn’t another just do the same? I tried not to care about it. Tried to pretend that dreams don’t exist, never existed, were pure fantasies but a part of me wants to soar with them.
But I know dreams only come true in dreams. Most of the time. Reality has little mercy. Individually, we mean nothing to anything. Well, most of us anyway.
I tie myself to the ground. Afraid that if I soar, I’ll fall. Fail. Again.
So I wait. Waiting for dreams. Waiting for reality. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. It’s like I’m waiting to get out of here…but to go, where?
Some days, I feel like I can go places, go far. I can fly. Do something meaningful, even revolutionary…maybe. But most of the time, I feel like I’m not good at anything. I’m grounded, staring longingly at the sky, alone.
Am I realist? Or a dreamer? A realist dreamer? Or a dreaming realist?
I don’t know.
I dream. But when it comes down to it, I’m a realist. A cynical realist. One who can’t really fathom it will really work out, who is convinced it will not. That it can’t. That idealism was, is only for children and the naive.
What happens to dreamers when they lose faith of their dreams?