"I'm sorry I broke my old dreams. I promise to take better care of them if I get new ones! Really!"
That's the tweet I'm not making right now. Strangely enough, there are people in the internet that worry about me, care for me, and such an inflammatory tweet would make them worry more. Even stranger, there are some people that hate me, think I am a horrible person (sometimes for good reason, other times not), but there's not too much I can do about that now, nor can I easily change what they think. I'm told I should let it go, not care, and for the most part I don't. But it's a strange feeling, knowing that both categories of people are out there.
I woke up feeling broken today, with a sense that I don't know what I'm living my life for.
I used to know. I used to have a good set of shiny sparkling dreams to draw me through the murk of existence. Things I wanted to do, things I wanted to be, goals of life and family.
I wasn't necessarily nice to those dreams, I broke them like expensive toys. It took a few years for me to shake off the shattered pieces of them and now I find myself in a nearly empty room looking for more toys. Where are they? I learned my lesson, I really think I did, I promise I'll take better care of them this time! Don't leave me like this.
I'm not saying my life is empty now. Far from it. I have the best friends now that I've ever had in the history of ever. I wouldn't have made it this far without them. And yet I still dream of the dreams that I used to have -- the family, projects, and passions that used to carry me.
I have such good times still, wonderful time with people I care about. But it seems to be a quirk of my psyche that, on weekends especially, when I wake up in bed alone it hurts so much. The dawn light is filtered through streaming tears.
Weekends used to be a time of energy and excitement, exploring new projects, new skills, making and shaping and designing; things I loved to do, things I still love. Now, I'm still looking for that energy, that hope. What happened to me? Am I broken now? I used to be a marvel of activity, people would gape from afar and wonder how I did all I did. Now, the couch calls to me, the book, the nap. Nascent projects lay scattered in my imagination, discarded and accusing.
I dream of my dreams and wonder what happened.
I do have one dream. Perhaps it is hopeless. But I keep my feet on the path and try to have faith that my energy will return to me, the passion, and maybe again, someday, more.
And if not? I still have these amazing friends that make life a better place to live. That's a lot, and I'm blessed. But perhaps it's just a quirk of my psyche that I always want... more. That's how I made such a mess in the first place.
Perhaps I haven't entirely learned my lesson after all. But I'm trying. I really am.
It's just that some mornings still hurt so much.
I wonder if anybody comes to this blog anymore? I almost hope not. I don't want you to worry about me. I'm sure I'll be okay. I usually am. This was just one of those mornings, and I needed to write, to exorcise, to think.