Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget, but I’m not really a pessimist or much of a realist either. When I learned to read, books became my escape from the world. I traveled around the world and to places unknown-labeled fiction. I witnessed battles and acts of heroism. And I experienced sadness, joy, and love alongside my favorite characters. Then there were the dreams that persisted when I closed my eyes at night. I could fly. Most important of all I could be loved in these dreams; unconditionally.
Even now when I have nightmares more than dreams, I take comfort in the fact my brain is still creating. And whenever so often a dream does blossom overnight, I enjoy the simplicity. I enjoy the fact that my dreams aren’t corrupted by sex, fear, insecurities. Honestly, it’s like I still have a part of me left from childhood that is innocent and hopeful; that doesn’t exist anywhere else.
So at the end of the day, when I’m complaining about the world, or people, it’s not because I truly hate either but because I love both so much that I can’t let them…not live up to their potential. I’m critical out of love and concern and because I have faith. ((Apathy would be the opposite of love.))
I feel like that is something my family doesn’t get about me. If I thought the world was even half as awful as they like to believe it is, I wouldn’t be here.
On a similar note, I’ve been thinking a lot about fairytales and true love and happiness. (and yes! I am currently watching Once Upon a Time and Grimm.)
5 years ago, the old me, believed completely in all of the above. Yeah I was annoyed that I was single. And that I had no close friends to share my problems with but I still thought abstract concepts like true love existed and that one day maybe that could happen to me.
Reality is a bitch. When do I give up on dreams? Love?
I sometimes have this doubt that maybe I’m placing my life too much into the What if catergory.