So I'm back.
Much as I thought that living my life vicariously, or rather, letting people do so through me (??) would go against all that was insane within me, I've been driven to present yet again those pieces of my life that I prefer to keep hidden.
In the hope that perhaps one day, out of sheer bad luck, someone will stumble onto this monologue and hear it. Perhaps.
Does a dreamer have a place in the rat race? I once wrote to myself, in the bygone days when one did it the old fashioned way with pen and paper, that I would prove that they do. That WE do.
Now I wonder. I did prove something; what it is, I cannot fathom anymore than I can whether I still qualify as a dreamer; what is the qualification? The criteria? What does a dreamer do?
Or perhaps the very nebulous nature of the word itself constitutes the definition. A dreamer is just that; she does not purport to DO anything, she does not brag about having earned medals or recognition. She simply wishes to be able to spin webs and wonder if they could indeed, someday, be.
Sometimes I wonder if everyone feels the crushing loss when a dream comes true. Dreams are always pretty; does anyone count their cost? Does the girl dreaming of being a femme fatale with a hundred broken hearts behind her consider that her heart would break in the process too?
Does a child dreaming of that important job with the ostentatious title realise the cost; the hours of simple pleasures that need to be edged out?
In all this, where do I stand? What can I say about myself today? Some of my dreams came true, and I stand here today, scared to dream lest they turn to reality.
