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It was just a dream. This life I had longed for. Desired. Envisioned. Even before I could adequately put into words why. I had been an ancient fairytale character written into the story of a 90s romantic comedy. Or so I felt. For long I escaped into the realm of imagination, where adventure was abundant, there were plenty of people that understood my soul and life’s purpose was evident. For too long I have walked the line between reality and fantasy. I had promised myself that! I would never become like the Others. Lacking direction, soul, a purpose. Letting themselves be swayed by the whims and expectations of the external world. No, I was not like that. I dreamed of freedom, of finding my tribe, of sacrifice for something grander than me. Of an inner fire, life-force, being awakened. Of enjoying life to the fullest. Of finding interesting people that could guide me and show me, in a way no one else could before. I dreamt of passion and passionate people, people that had a love for life and beauty. I dreamt of belonging with those people. I dreamt of feeling safe, adequate, cherished, understood. Mainly understood. How I despised being misunderstood and belittled for my dreams. Having to hear how insane and unrealistic I was being. And yet I could sense the same dreams whispered in the creations of artists: in art, stories, music. I wasn’t alone to want something more than this endless waste of our one precious life.&nbsp; I am drowning in my sorrow. I survived for many years in my fantasies. Retreating, regrouping. Until I had the strength to act in reality. They kept me alive and sustained me. When I was too weak to face the demands of the world they shielded me. Kept me alive with dreams and illusions.&nbsp; And today I look at myself in the mirror and wonder where it went wrong. Am I too aimless? Am I too weak? Why couldn’t I have been born into the right tribe, being nourished the right way, guided the right way? Or perhaps I was asking for too much from mortal beings. Maybe I wasn’t meant for whatever I had dreamed of, and instead of facing this reality, I choose to blame Others. Are my dreams the dreams of a child, is it time to wake up and grow up? Time to realize that it’s easier to swim with the current rather than against it. That the closest thing I will get to experience divinity is in nature and through music. And accept that the Art of Life is only for those surrounded by like-minded people naturally, not having to fight endlessly to find them. And that Beauty is for those that naturally possess it, and not have to study it intently. I know the answer is within me, yet in my frailty I seek outside advice. I feel so utterly lost. And in my aimlessness, I am trying on different costumes. Costumes of different perspectives, philosophies, groups of people, lifestyles. Just to find the answer to the eternal question - am I living my life right? I fear regret. I fear the unlived life. I fear fear, and it’s at times paralyzing hold on me. What is a strength to cultivate as a dreamer, is a weakness when it comes to anxiety. The tendency to think, think, think and imagine, imagine, imagine. In fleeting moments I feel the taste of poison, of bitterness and lack of fulfillment. I have sacrificed to be here, yet it is not enough. I fear being like the older people I have dealt with, with barely hidden rage at their own missed potential and passed by life. Their envy at the youth and our, in their own mind, bright future that they themselves could have had. Maybe I ask for too much of life. And I haven’t given her enough gratitude in return. So many uncertainties.&nbsp; Maybe dreams are dreams for a reason. Fantasies should remain so, as reality will never be able to measure. “There is no life I know that compares with pure imagination”. Maybe it is time to accept that the most exciting thing life has to offer is love and sex. And that it is time to have adult aims - get a good-paying job, meet a nice partner, do what is expected of me. Do what will get me praise, and a nod of approval. Do things that my parents can boast about, rather than having to look away shamefully and mutter a half-lie to satisfy people’s curiosity. It would be easier in many ways.&nbsp;&nbsp; I think and I know. That my perspective is tainted by the people I have been surrounded with my whole life. That I am just one of many with these thoughts. I don’t presume myself to be unique in this aspect. In my desires and thoughts. But how do I signal to my tribe that I am one of them? What is our equivalent of a howl? Is it a certain clothing style, events we frequent, language we speak? Would I have made the choices I made if I knew how hard it would be? It is not easy severing yourself from everything that was once part of you, no matter how unnatural it felt. Now I am tasked with creating my life from the start. I uprooted everything, and now I have to plant new seeds. I was warned about the importance of keeping my roots, and to be proud of them. What the advisor didn’t want to hear is that my roots were poisonous to me, they were a rock, tying me from what I actually wanted and demanded of me relentless loyalty. It was not a life. Or no. It was a soulless life, devoid of any humanness. It was a preapproved checklist that I was going through one at a time; follow these moral guidelines (check) don’t question your parents (check) university (check)... Like the phoenix I hope to rise from the ashes.

It was just a dream

Mira

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It was just a dream

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Mira

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