dreams then vs now
things I wished for, things I lost
Things I dreamed about when I was younger, things I thought would be a part of my life now, things that never quite lasted. *Play Teal by Wunderhorse*
Having the same best friend forever. I always dreamed of having the same best friend my entire life. Things seemed to be going that way for me for a while. My one best friend and I were inseparable- we wore matching outfits, we had sleepovers every weekend, we even won middle school superlatives for Best Friends. Unfortunately the friendship that budded in first grade wasn’t able to survive our twenties. Dealing with a best friend breakup is worse heartbreak than losing a boy. The memories that only the both of you share, that you remember late at night lying in bed and have no one else to reminisce on them with. The secrets you shared, the secrets that only she knew about you- from a different part of your life, when you were you then but not you now. Perhaps that’s why we drifted apart to begin with- the burden of the memories weighing us down. We grew apart so far until no more space could fit between us, and all it really took was one small incident to snap the delicate silk string trying it’s best to keep it all together. We reconnected once, but it wasn’t the same, and I think we both know that. Losing a best friend is not easy, the trust is gone, a guard has been put up. It’s hard to replace this, once you’ve had the real thing
Living on my own in a big city. Specifically Manhattan, as a New York girl born and raised. I would threaten my mother with sharp-tongued insults- claiming to move to the city forever and never return. I saved up all the money I made working every minimum wage job I’ve had since my first at thirteen (where I wore jelly sandals and knee highs and plaid tennis skirts to my mother’s corporate job, where I sent sales-pitch emails and filed paperwork in the cold air-conditioned cubicle all summer long), packed my bags and moved into the college dorms positioned smack dab in the center of Chelsea with a girl I met on Facebook. Of course, I still loved my mother. I think that being away from her for some time actually strengthened our bond. I learned to fend for myself. I moved into my dream city with $10,000 that disappeared quickly within the first two months of my living there. I went to brunch at cafes I couldn’t afford, I ate dining hall salad that was half frozen and part of a mandatory meal plan for freshmen students (I despised this), I went for walks (so many walks, everywhere). I would leave my apartment, overwhelmed, and trek up and down the streets with no destination in mind- looking for something, anything that would possibly catch my eye. I didn’t know what I wanted then, I’m not sure I do now either. I can recall a time that I walked up and down 23rd street about ten times- from 8th avenue back up to 3rd and back down to 8th and back up to 3rd. Long avenues, stretching miles probably if you add all the back and forth together. I was looking for a place to eat dinner and I couldn’t figure it out- I wanted something cheap, but not too cheap that it would be unhealthy. I wanted substance, but not something too carb loaded (I didn’t do carbs back then). I didn’t know. And I cried and cried and called my mom and I think I ended up getting falafel or something that night, I honestly can’t even remember, but that was the first time I stopped and thought to myself- hey, maybe this isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be? Maybe it’s not perfect? Things happened- life, the usual- and now I’m back living at home, where ten years ago I said I would never return. It’s not so bad. It’s not forever, but I know that this is where I need to be right now. What other option do I have? This was the path for me, I guess.
To have a gallery exhibition for my art, and my art alone. I know that I am not old yet, but I really thought this would have happened by now. I have been a painter for most of my life. I can remember making paper machè Matisse fishbowls in first grade and thinking ‘this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.’ I remember my first self portrait, no colored pencil matching my olive skin tone, so choosing to blend multiple shades of peach and brown to correctly match (what I perceived as) my skin color. I remember my mom’s friend coming to my school art show and asking which piece was mine, and being so proud to point it out. I remember her laugh- asking why I used so many colors at once- her telling me that I wasn't brown, so why did I use that colored pencil and four other different ones to color in skin. My first critique, it hit like a slap across my little face. I continued though. I made art all throughout elementary school, and middle school and high school. And then I went to art school. I made art in college. I painted canvases the most during college. Commissions for friends, commissions for strangers, giant 48” x 56” linen wrapped canvases gifted to friends for birthdays. How cool to have my art hanging in someone else’s home, long after the friendship has faded away? If someone painted you something out of love, for you and no one else, would you throw it away? I know I couldn't, but perhaps it’s because I am an empath. I was featured in various small-scale art shows, held by people I met on the streets of New York, held by friends of classmates. I continued to make paintings; the same style, the same subject matter, different pieces, different sizes. I took my paintings on the subway. I thought I would eventually throw an art show for myself, or become so well known for my work that I would be invited to do something. This didn’t happen. I moved back home. I lost my workspace. My craft dwindled. I barely make art. It’s hard when you don’t have your own space, your own studio. How can you be inspired when you have to clean up your mess immediately after? I want to leave my things out. I miss the tubes of halfway dried-up acrylic missing their caps sprawled across my work table. I miss the paint on my clothes, the paint on my elbows. I think I miss these little things the most.
Publishing a novel. How many abandoned novels live in the depths of the hard drive from my childhood desktop computer? I guess someday I’ll retrieve them, somehow. If it’s not too late. If the wires haven’t fully corroded yet and it’s not beyond repair. I had a journal I kept in high school. I won’t go into too much detail for fear of spoiling a future plan- but it documented everything. Most of my high school life is on paper, tucked away in my bedroom. I started a novel on my very first laptop, tapping away on Microsoft Word, this journal brought to life, characters given a place to breathe. I abandoned it, I’m not sure why. I think I grew out of it. But maybe this dream doesn't have to die. Recently, I tried again. I wrote a novel. I wrote the whole thing- from start to finish. beginning, middle and end. And then I revised it. TWICE. As someone who has struggled to finish things for most of her life, this is big. I wrote the whole entire thing. Now my struggle is the query. Fighting the voice inside me, telling me that it’s not good enough, that no one will like my story, that people will hate what I have to say. But isn’t this what every writer has to fight? Aren’t we all trying to escape our intrusive thoughts. Like, I said, maybe I will actually achieve this dream. I can see it. I can see it clear as day, actually.
This is so good. The reality of dreams changes so much over the years but they’re so good to have still
oh i loveee this idea