The Things I Never Say Aloud

I always feel like I’m nearing the cusp of some great idea, something that could change the world—or at least one person’s world, and everything that means. I’m one door away from seeing what I was purposed for, but I’m always standing outside the door, fist raised to knock but as silent as my tongue remains.

After long hard days I still manage to find inspiration. But what’s the use of having it, if you have no one to share it with? Wrong. I have people—family, friends, my boyfriend, people I have yet to meet. But when there’s a colorful world in your head, and not enough words in your vocabulary to give them life in conversation, it gets lonely really quick.

Sometimes I feel like I’m at university just to be at university, that I’ve forsaken my true passions in an effort to conform. I know what I’m doing is important, and I’m nearly to the end, but not knowing how to apply what I’ve learned in terms of a future career is daunting, to say the least. There’s still music in my heart, waken up every so often to remind me of the joy I used to feel for the art. I still feel it to some extent, but the idea of restricting talent with the vice of academic study kills the dream quicker than it fuels it.

Then there are the dreams I’m not sure I’ve ever had, thoughts in my head that haven’t come around yet. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong, and I’m meant for something different. But with the importance of knowing this stuff now and immediately, I feel like I don’t have time to explore what I can truly contribute.

I have as many reasons to go on as I have to quit, but some days they fight so hard I take a neutral stance. As I write, there’s a beat to the words that I’m typing, and although I try to shut it off to make a point, it doesn’t stop.

Are dreams a current currency, or is it better to trade them for realities? Do dreams form realities, or do they distract from that creation? I’m told that talent matters, but in the real world, that I should really have a back-up plan.

I’m writing, yes, but how far can that go? I’ve written poems, stories, and songs that haven’t gone anywhere (most went into recycling because my early writings were cringey). I sing, formerly in groups, and now, never outside the home, because how does that help me when I’m writing papers about communication theories? I have hope in my heart, a burning in my core, but where does that get me aside from indecisiveness?

I’d like to think I’m not going to end up as a passive witness to history, that I will be able to do something momentous—in some meaning of the word—before it’s too late. The possibility is there, and some people would say that all I need to do is grab it and see what happens. But dreaming feels impractical when reality demands so much of my focus—it’s better to stay in the here and now, rather than place hope in a future that may never come to pass.

Maybe I’m just blabbering on at this point, but I feel like I need to. Every time I express this conflict, people think I’m thinking less of myself. But all I need is for someone to listen, not to placate me or assure me I’m doing all that I can. I want to be more, but I don’t want to cave under the pressure. I just want to make change and get feedback on what I can do next.

Holding my hand as I take the first step isn’t enough. I must also have your ear, mind, and word. I’ve often said other people know me better than I know myself, but maybe I need to hear something else: “You know best.”


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