Ambitions

I am currently sitting at the desk my Mum bought me a long while ago. From IKEA, as it figures. And I’m wondering why I keep typing letters out of order… hand dyslexia? 0.o I suppose I’ll just have to deal with hitting backspace for the moment.

I’m staring outside – according to the light against the trees, it appears that it should threaten to rain – I’m begging to angels to cry – but the birds are still singing, I can see the nearly white sky behind the branches of the beautiful place in which I live.

Now, it seems fit and unfair that I’d have to be torn between these two ultimatums – deep, bright, exponentially raining city and the paralleling deep, bright, exponentially raining country with rolling hills, picture – book style. And take note, both places must have a substantial, even uncanny amount of rain!

Rain allows me to do so many things – running in the rain is like swimming… but feeling wind in your face and feeling cheery at the same time, flying? I can sit inside and play my guitar or watch a movie – most prefferably, reading novels. When it’s sunny… eh, running isn’t nearly as enjoyable and sitting inside just isn’t fun at all. That’s when one is forced to swim. I enjoy a good swim, but somehow I don’t think I’ll do it nearly as much as I do it now later in life. I like it that way.

I’m sighing. Is it me, or did the sun just get brighter?

I took a quiz on Quizilla today. Quizilla makes me undoubtedly happy. It was one of careers, and go-figure Miss Typical me came up with “Career in the Arts” – a very distant (and invariably close) dream of mine. This misty little haze of a dream – as Wendy’s mum would describe her and her husbands – these dreams are the ones I reserve as a special indulgence. You know, I shall Google this quote, as it is most properly said by the lady.

Mrs. Darling : There are many different kinds of bravery. There’s the bravery of thinking of others before one’s self. Now, your father has never brandished a sword nor fired a pistol, thank heavens. But he has made many sacrifices for his family, and put away many dreams.
Michael : Where did he put them?
Mrs. Darling : He put them in a drawer. And sometimes, late at night, we take them out and admire them. But it gets harder and harder to close the drawer… He does. And that is why he is brave.

Mrs. Darling is such a wise character in Peter Pan (I’ve always adored this book) and I love that quote – “And somtimes, late at night, we take them out and admire them. But it gets harder and harder to close the drawer…” She continues to say that Mr. Darling is brave – though I wouldn’t go on as to say I were brave at any point in my life, but the dreams- what I would do to be able to view them as a we…

Late at night, I lay under the covers and pray that if I blink my eyes enough or will it enough, that I will undergo some sort of divine transformation and blink once more to find I live as someone different in a new world, a new place, a wonderful place. I review all of my dreams, that life were as simple as Harry Potter, to know and feel more vibrantly just exactly what your goal in life is, what you’re fighting for.

Everyday I recognise more often that I was born in the wrong century, decade, location, etc, but I wish I could say I were satisfied to be here. I very bluntly am not- and that is by choice, and the nature of the stubborn – I can’t let go, these dreams and ambitions are so near to me, like a very distant and secret part of me that I fear will be carried, dragged along as a burden for the rest of my life.

And I wonder if I will ever make the choice to let them go- life would be much easier if I could just have them… but that isn’t reality, is it? Special people get that. I’m not very special at the moment.

Yes, I know I’m special. Then again, no one is special. Everyone is special… when will this end? It’s painful to think about.

I feel like I half-dwell in the subtle nightmare, so easily stooped by the realness of this world – I know this part of me is easily explained – I was not created for this world or by this world. You can torture my body, but not my soul. It was created for the Kingdom… which I’ve chosen so stupidly to ignore and still do.

Ah – to live vibrantly and with confidence – a luxury which I cannot access! How I wonder what it feels like, that freedom… that true freedom…

I very honestly do not like this strange reality. Living here is like living in a dream. When you dream, you’re forced into a whole different world and situation whether you like it or not, and you must worry about the things which are worried about there, you must do what everyone else does – for the simple reason that it is pointless to resist. If you are in an art school, forced there and cannot go, why sit in a corner and do nothing? You might as well join in the talk, might as well act as if you care about which brushes you should use or which colours are complementary, analogous, blahblahblah – it’s being forced into something which isn’t you (which, as I have forgotten to mention in my analogy, is exclusive to the case of someone who doesn’t love art – crime, by the way) and holds no interest. You simply must accept that you’ll have to live with this for the next eighty plus years of your life and there’s no use wasting it without fun – that isn’t yours either.

This is all so terribly pessimistic I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. Writing from my heart, I suppose? It’s an evil thing, let me remind you of that.

And again I stare out my window, I’m sitting at my still new IKEA desk, my coursework has sat uselessly and unfinished in front of me for the past half hour. I realise one of my greatest ambitions and reams is to fall in love at a coffee shop. I realise that my dear fantasy of playing music for a living is simply a facet of my imagination and nothing more. I realise the art hanging on my wall means nothing to everyone. I realise the many novels locked away in my head and in this computer are useless, and they only serve the purpose of making me who I am.

I suppose this will have to do as life for me. I’ll be thrust into the reality, a subtle nightmare, in a matter of twelve hours. Moreso five minutes as my coursework is yes, still unfinished in front of me.

I bid you a good night – and oh -it’s summer by the way. Loads of sun to be not reading or running in.

Cheers.