We All Have Dreams

When I was a kid, about 3rd grade, we went to see a play. It was a Pinnochio play. When we got back to school we were tasked in groups of three or four of writing a small essay on what he'd seen at the show.

Now, I don't remember why but I remember it happening. I picked up my pen, looked intently at the rest of the group and said "don't worry, guys. I got this." I'm sure it was quite less epic and awe inspiring and they almost surely did not just stare at me slack-jawed but instead hastened to find something to entertain themselves with.

I set about the task like a kid possessed. The words poured from my hand to the paper in that illegible script I call cursive handwriting. I'm pretty sure my hair was all over the place and the sweat trickled down the side of my face when I was finished. I handed the paper to our teacher and returned to my seat, a smile of absolute fulfilment and bliss slashing my face from ear to ear.

A few days later, after she had graded the essays, my mother went to the school for some reason or other and the teacher called her aside.

She explained about the play and the assignment. 'Your daughter,' and she pointed at me 'wrote it all herself. I have no definite proof but I know this. This is all her. And it's good.' I don't much remember what she said next other from the fact that I was labeled as very lazy, tardy and violent towards other kids (hey, I bet they were asking for it).

Maybe that influenced me but, from that day on, I've written. You ever seen a strange kid scribbling frantically on a piece of paper on the subway/bus, any piece of paper, in fact, from ATM tickets to napkins, writing so frantically that you think his hands might burst into flames at any minute? I was that kid once. But, then again, who wasn't?

I've created so many worlds, fell in love with so many fictional people. I've filled pages and pages with crappy ideas and some pretty good ones. Most of them were crap, granted. If all ideas were good the world would implode from its own awesomeness. Still, I never tried to be a writer for a living. I guess the media influenced this decision of mine. I always got the impression that being a writer wasn't a real job, that it wasn't a viable career choice, that being a published author was something that happened to you, not something you strived to be.

For that reason alone I've stumbled down the road of higher education, dabbling in linguistics, translation and, more recently, office skills. None of them were really my dream. I never woke up really wanting to go do those things, I never went to bed grinning about a job well done. It's more about doing what is expected of me, of doing something, anything, the responsability of being a productive member of...

You know what? It's ok. I mean, one can't complain if one has never done anything about it anyways. I've stomped my feet a few times, yelling "no, this is not what I want for me" but I've never did it to say "this is exactly what I want". I guess I was afraid; afraid of rejection, of not being as interesting or as amusing as I think I am. Like all (or most) level-headed people, I love myself. I'm as interesting as I think anyone could be and damn, I'm funny. In my own honest opinion.

I've just came to the realisation that there is no real conclusion to this train of thought. Am I seeking aproval? A pat on the back? At this point I'd settle for a "it's ok Sara, you can be a no-lifer. I don't mind" from the world. Oh, yes, we all have to find our path in life and it's not always easy and all that. I am lazy. Is there a job specifically designed for the lazy? I wants it. I'm phisically incapable of being anywhere on time. The stars align to make me late, I swear and everyone that has met me can testify to this. I'd love to have a routine that dragged me head first out of this intellectual stupor.

Or it could well be the case that I'm just depressed that Mike's on the other side of the globe and I'm left to clean up after the cat by myself for two weeks.