No More Dream

Living without a dream is possibly one of the scariest things I had ever had to encounter. The simple act of waking up and deciding what to eat for today, living day by day, suddenly became exhausting. What was I living for? What was my purpose?

We need a purpose, right? Then it makes all of this breathing thing worth it?

I used to have big dreams. In primary school, I learnt that we had to move around a lot, so I had to adapt. I had to learn the languages of the place, assimilate better so I could translate things for my parents when needed. I was convinced I wanted to learn new languages, I wanted to be a translator. I wanted to be able to speak Japanese so I could understand anime better. I managed to speak Swedish, fluently, then we left Sweden, and it stopped. I could no longer speak that language. 

Ever since then, I tried. I tried to learn other languages, the interest was there. But it left as quickly as it came. My wayward sense of being destroyed any chance of me sticking to one thing and one thing alone. I didn’t give up, I just simply decided my time with it was done. And this happens with a lot of things I start. Back then, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But as I grew up, I realised how crippling this behaviour is. 

I’m so used to moving and to change that I automatically programme within me when it’s time to up and leave. However, the change happened when I was a part of my parent’s life. They were the reason we moved so much. But now, as I sit alone, at home, much older, no longer attached to my parents, I realised how I crave stability. 

Stability in the smallest things. I wish I learnt those languages more, I wish I stuck to wanting to learn things to the end. I wish I would stop expecting the next move. I had lived 22 years of my life like that. I should start living my own life. I should actually sit my ass down and see something through till the end. 

I have to find my dream again. Whether it be writing, learning a new language, dancing, or just anything. I need to find my dream again. Everyone has one, I think I just forgot mine because I was trying so hard to be this perfect person, smart, talented, all rounded. But really, I just had to be me, the most perfect me I can be. 

Dinner

Growing up, we’d have dinner as a family. Everyone had to be sat down at the dinner table, despite various complains. That was the norm, until we began moving out, and traditions changed, norms reconfigured.

 

 

 

Every night she would yell from the bottom of the stairs, calling us down to eat. That time, we were blind to how much she slaved in the kitchen, we did offer help here and there, but still, it wasn’t enough compared to just how much of her labour she poured into every action she did. Every night she complained about our inability to bring ourselves downstairs to eat at the right time, and yet every night we complain to her about how busy we are with our lives, and how we could do with just one more minute.

 

 

 

Now, alone, away from her, we realise how much her words meant. To fill the gap of having a table filled with people, I waste my time choosing tv shows that only drown out the silence. Nothing too though provoking, just enough for some humour and long enough for me to empty my plate. Even with others around me, the setting is just not right. And the food? Just doesn't taste as good as it should be. Maybe the spices aren't right?

 

 

 

The older you get, the more you realise. And the realisation sucks. Having that tiny part of your brain say "I told you so" in that condescending tone doesn't help either. Sighing, I sit down to a plate of creamy mash and spicy roast chicken, with my laptop open, and my bland meal in front of me, I open up an episode of Friends.

 

 

 

Its an endless spiral.