Dreaming With A Broken Heart
I'm a dreamer, laden with the hopes of a mad man and confident in the divine appointment of destiny. Whatever is perfect, at least to me, is fuel to my mind and heart. I throw away logic and welcome penny stocks. If I'm not striving for jewels, then I'm digging up rocks. There's nothing in the world that'll stop me from even the slimmest chance of finding that love exists. A mental person's greatest strength comes in the form of an unbendable and passionate mind. His greatest weakness? Perhaps the belief that it's the world, not him, who holds him back from achieving success.
So yes, I'll take all the chances thrown at me. People might tell me it's not worth it, that I can do much better, and to them I say you're right. If I were anyone else, I would tell myself the same thing, but then that's because I wouldn't really be myself anymore. It's a little like telling a smoker to stop smoking because it's $10 a pack and detrimental to your health. We all know how that usually turns out.
I've found dreaming to be the one thing keeping me alive in this wretched world. The five minutes starring off into oblivion, imagining a world with this, that, and her, soothes my soul. The life I've painted has become a portrait, even a mural, that dabbles in cubism but ultimately reverts back to a photo taken by a phone.
But the world punishes dreamers and people with hope, no matter how right their view of how the universe should work is. Like a pin pushed onto the skin of a balloon, it's only natural to deflate from everything to nothing in mere seconds. I'm a person big on the storybook endings, yet I'm a writer of such fiction myself.
Of course I've considered it, that is stepping away from the words people have instilled into me as positive, whatever that even means. We learn in elementary school that it's commendable to say "I have a dream" and endearing to claim hope. Here I am, though, wallowing in the despair that dreams and hopes have brought on.
It's only natural for me to filter these emotions out. A smart person never eats a poisonous fruit, recovers from it, and tries again. Of course, I've never been the smartest of the bunch. You'd think I would've learned by now to contain the expectation that nature would play itself out.
How could I ever give up. To dream wildly is the backbone of my existence, maybe even the only source of happiness I'll ever find. For a few moments, I bathe myself in the memories I should've made and the joy I could've felt. I'll let it crash down if only to feel satisfied for a few trickles of sand in an hourglass.
Now, however, comes the realities and injustice of my life. The next day has already been planned, lying awake waiting for a message that'll never come and sleeping in drunkenness of music that better describe my life that I can myself. In fact, it's not much different than the previous times I've had hope and dreamt of the one thing I wanted most.
Except this time, it'll be in waiting for the routine to start all over again.