Do I follow my passion?
I’ve been turning the thought over and over in my head this entire year, and every time I think I might have some conviction in my decision, I’m swayed in the other direction. Always oscillating. My thought process swings about like some sort of deranged pendulum.
I met him in a dream.
The forest floor was cushioned in moss and little white blossoms. Soft morning light illuminated a path of dew before me, paving itself as I stepped. The birds sang their reverie, gently pulling me in. I walked barefoot, relishing in the feeling of fresh, cool soil between my toes. There was no sky, no stars, no sun; above me the canopy of leaves went endlessly upwards. Light came from within the white petals of flowers as if they held the secrets of the universe inside.
As a child I collected countless things – rocks, marbles, stickers, sea glass – things that seemed so insignificant. A child can place the largest value upon the most mundane of things, something that becomes increasingly hard to grasp as one slips away into adulthood. As an outsider, banished from the imaginative wonderland of childhood, it’s hard to remember the feeling of losing your favourite pebble or toy car, despite their abundance. Why this thing? They’re asked. But does there have to be a reason?
Time passes. Our little trinkets and treasures get lost, stuck behind the couch, under the bed, the inside of the vacuum cleaner. As we begin to grow older, we develop a new sense of what it means to own things. I remember watching TV as a 7-year-old, and being fired with an artillery of obscenely colourful advertisements telling me not only that I wanted it but that I needed it. Some things become exclusive, others useless, some even shameful. Things become a disguise for money and a benchmark for comparison.