this music is good, it fits the post, you might like it
They say that it’s okay to be afraid. As long as your fear is acceptable. As long as it’s normal. And understandable. As long as its something that’s alright to be afraid of. As long as it’s conquerable.
Clowns perhaps. Clowns are scary mother fuckers. Maybe heights. Death. Minorities. Being cheated. Being cheated on. Failure. The fear of failure absolutely terrifies me. The rest doesn’t interest me much either way.
Sometimes the fear of failure terrifies me to the point of inaction. Rejection. Self-loathing. They come at me, hand in hand. It’s easy to lose hope, to lose faith. It’s easy to give up, to be safe. Easy to allow your dreams to fade. To kill them in slow, gradual deaths that go mostly unnoticed. They die every day, yours and a million others. The worst part of it is, we do it to ourselves, we kill our own dreams.
We put them off, we put them on hold, we delay delay delay. Until one day we wake up and we forget of what we dreamt in the first place. We trade them for comfort, for material possessions. We trade them for convenience. We give them away to others. We show them off; the delicate, pretty things that they are, to the beautiful girls and charming boys that we meet along the way. We share them, we explain that they are what we strive to be and then we put them away until next time. Back in the pocket, back in the pack, we hold them tightly until we can display them again, never actually taking the time to help them grow. And our dreams, our delicate pretty dreams grow old and worn. Where they once shone brightly, they now look dull and cheap. That’s when we can find them at all, because sometimes we can’t. Eventually we are forced to look around at our comfortable existence as we can’t figure out where our dreams went. Why would they be hiding? Why would they leave us?
So we search them out. In the corners of our nicely decorated apartments, and cluttered garages, we find traces of their existence. Old paints, unfinished drawings. That novel never sent to the publisher, the amazing photographs never framed. The business plan that never found financing, the adventures that never lived. That old guitar, once loved, now comes with cobwebs and broken strings.
It’s easy to let time slip away. It’s impossible to get it back. Dreams won’t wait around forever; they don’t care about the circumstance. They can’t. Their time is limited, and eventually they yield to regrets. Vicious, ugly things, regrets are cancer to dreams. And as with various other types of cancer, there is no cure. You can only take care of your dreams, work hard, turn them into reality instead of regret.
It dawned on me in recent days, that all I have are my dreams. I don’t have a nicely decorated apartment, or even a permanent home. I don’t have that special lady friend, or children of my own. I’m on the road, and I’m not sure where I’m going to land when it’s time to be done. I have a backpack, and a little computer with stickers on it. I have my memories of home, and new experiences along the way. I have some worn out sandals, and well worn clothes. I have calluses on my feet, and muscles on my back. I’m laughing to myself along with the other crazies at a public library in a foreign country, because I just realized that both my hoodie and my jeans are second hand gifts. I have a light in my eyes though, because I’m doing what I want to do. I have each day, and its infinite promise of wonder and excitement and good times. I have my smile, because its so much better than my frown.
And I have my dreams. And I am unafraid.