Where the Unlived Dreams Go

BE REALISTIC, they said.

WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GROW UP, they queried insinuatingly.

YOU’RE A DREAMER, they convicted.

Wondering through life not finding THAT place under the sun.

Comfortable (ish) in most places but never quite home.

Accomplished and successful in everyone’s eyes but a gaping hole in the chest.

*

Suited, booted and fancy-wheeled but secretly daydreaming about beating on a sheepskin bongo drum among like-minded hippies. But what will people say? What if I lose the security and the status I worked so hard for?

*

Steel toe-capped boots, hi-vis and helmet, comfortably paying the bills whilst secretly daydreaming of creating the most colourful flower displays in your home nursery. But where would I even start?! I know nothing about flowers. And I’ll be ridiculed.

*

Streetwise, survivor, not proud of things you were once proud of and patted on the back for by your ‘buddies’ but secretly dreaming about saving people’s lives, their souls. Secretly dreaming about young people never having to become ‘streetwise’. But what will my ‘buddies’ say? If I lose my standing, I’ll become prey. And who will want me - who will trust me - with my history and background? I’m probably too dumb for it, anyway.

*

A cushy seat behind a desk, a neatly ironed ‘smart cas’ dress and little-too-high-for-comfort heels. Deposit slowly building up, safe, secure, promising. But, whilst small-talking with someone whose name escape you at that shared office coffee machine, secretly dreaming about shaving your head for charity, throwing a backpack together, and exploring the shamanic ways in some undiscovered faraway lands, of waking to the bird song in the morning, of learning the true sound of silence late at night. But it’s too dangerous, too risky, really, it’s ridiculous. How would I even tell my family and friends? They would be right in saying I am not cut out for this. I don’t know on which side of the tree the moss is supposed to grow. I don’t know how to start a fire. I wouldn’t make it.

*

A familiar beeping sound with each scanned item, the talkative old lady that visits every Tuesday for meagre weekly shopping, a grumpy, muttering-under-his-breath man after you inform him that it’s ‘card only’ which he failed to notice before emptying his trolley on the belt. That feeling of being wronged undeservedly every time you get moaned at for something that is out of your control. Children’s PE kit to save up for as September approaches, the overdue car payment. Whilst secretly dreaming of law school, picturing yourself in the horsehair wig and intimidating gown persuading the jurors. But where would you even start at this stage of your life? It’s too late, and you’re too old. You cannot even begin to imagine how you would go about it, especially with the expense of it that is sooooo out of your reach. And time. You have to continue supporting you and yours. And it’s not for you anyway; you came from the ‘wrong’ place to ever dream of ‘fitting in’ there. And those around you will point their finger and roll their eyes.

*

Finally approaching retirement! Soon all those delayed flights with those neck-breaking seats will be in the past. Soon, all the weight of those never-ending demands can be passed on to another. Soon I’ll be able to use the loo without taking the damn phone with me. Soon, I’ll be enjoying that well-earned rest! ................. But what the F is that?! Why on earth am I feeling restless?! Where did that stupid thought of ‘useless’ come from?! Or ‘irrelevant’?! Isn’t that what I wanted and worked for all my life?! Damn right, I hustled and bustled my life away to enjoy my safe and secure retirement. So what the hell is wrong with me now?! I remember that dream I used to have about growing coffee in the Colombian mountains… But I couldn’t possibly do it now! I’m in my 60s. People will think I've gone barking mad! I am too old for that; I should just be chilling with a cuppa and my biscuit tin and put the world to rights from the safety of my armchair in front of the good old telebox. But am I too old?! I am ONLY in my 60s, not ALREADY in my 60s! But no… But yes.. But no… But yes…

*

A renowned doctor and scientist, looked up to and in demand. Loving the job, grateful for being in a position to be in a job that makes a difference, that helps people day in and day out. Approved and respected by peers. But wanting more than is now accepted possible. KNOWING more than is so far widely known and accepted. There’s more to it, there’s the ‘beyond’, and you’ve been toying with the ideas for decades. You cannot afford to suggest and speak out without risking becoming ostracised for outlandish ideas. You cannot risk losing credibility. Your craft is all you have. It is what powers your existence, what makes you YOU. But you know it’s right. You know it’s the next big thing, it’s the future. It could bring suffering to all-time lows. Or even prevent it! But it will sound to the rest as outlandish as washing hands between attending to different patients once did to avoid the spread of infection and disease. And what’s the point anyway? No one will give you funding to explore your ideas further; no one will believe it is possible. Or, worse, you’ll be renounced as a quack. No, you cannot afford it. But why is it so difficult to look in the mirror?...

*

Another rainy day visiting the vulnerable, cleaning their bedsores and warming the ready meals. Never enough time to get from one to another, anxiety a frequent companion on the passenger seat next to the half-eaten sandwich whilst stuck in traffic. Some will shout for being left waiting; some others will understand and offer you a cuppa. But you don’t have time for a cuppa because you’re already 50 minutes behind. And then again, stuck in stationary traffic, right by the dance school you drive past daily. Somewhere deep in your chest, a memory stirs of how you once dreamt of becoming a dancer. You even had the suede-soled dance shoes; you were size 3 then... And then the traffic starts moving, and you’re now 70 minutes behind, and the anxiety is back in the passenger seat, making itself comfy again. And the moment you can, you put that foot down, trying your damnest to get to your next charge as soon as possible whilst bracing yourself for being routinely moaned at for being late yet again. And that fleeting memory fades away again. What’s the point? Dancing won’t pay the bills. And you certainly don’t look like the dancers on the magazine pages or ‘Strictly’. You’ll be laughed at. And, anyway, the repeated back strain from heavy lifting and awkward bending has done some lasting damage. Nevermind. Tuck it back to where all the dreams belong – the past.

*

Another day in the ergo chair, firing up the tools of the daily grind. It’s not that bad, really. Nice comfy job from home, saving hundreds on commuting. It’s pouring down outside, but it doesn’t concern you as you don’t have to go out there. Your phone rings. However many times you changed your phone, you somehow always ended up with the same ringtone – your favourite rock song that made you feel alive back when you, as a young lad, took that entry-level job as a temporary means to tie you over whilst dreaming about being a lead singer in a rock band. The vision of your old guitar tucked in the farthest corner under your bed briefly flashes past your eyes. It is covered in dust, and you never replaced the snapped string in the last 15 years. A dull ache briefly constricts your chest. But there’s no time for that because you’re brought back from reminiscing by your boss’s raised voice demanding to know why aren’t you at your station 15 minutes before the formal working hours commence ‘like all the dedicated team players’. And so you open up the data set, and enter and enter and enter… For the 983rd time, you make a mental note to order a set of strings during your lunch break and, when it arrives, maybe get down on your knees to pull that guitar from under the bed to at least blow the dust off.

*

A breadwinner for those depending on you, you must continue as you are. So what you’re feeling like the spirit that was once on fire is slowly but surely dwindling, and a black hole is slowly overtaking that space that the raging flame used to occupy. And you feel that you can do nothing to stop it but helplessly watch it happen. You have commitments that you need to keep. Whatever it costs you. You’re a grown-up now and need to act and THINK like one. You need to accept the reality.

*

So many lives; no one the same. And, yet, all so relatable.

So many stories.

So many ideas that never see the light of day.

So many dreams, lost to reality.

*

I’m a dreamer. Many sceptic non-believers snicker. Some that love me and are used to it, with a forgiving smile on their faces and a light flick of their hand, express the sentiment of ‘Oh, you know, it’s Lina’. They are ‘forgiving’ of my ways like one is to a young, naïve child. Others who love me, with my best interest at heart, push me to ‘grow up’, ‘apply myself’, ‘be realistic’. It used to annoy me, but over time, I accepted that they, indeed, wish what was think and feel is best for me. And I appreciate the sentiment. I also learned to appreciate that no one else can know what is best for another. They think they do, but they don’t.

*

I invite you all to daydream.

Wildly, outlandishly, shamelessly.

Dream the impossible.

Dream against the tide.

In private.

At the top of your lungs off the rooftops.

Dream while cooking that 137th  burger, while approving someone’s mortgage.

While stuck in a school run traffic.

Whilst presenting those boring charts to those other grey-suited men in the room.

While packing someone else’s groceries.

Dream while being cheered and booed.

While grabbing that supermarket meal deal on the way to probably delayed train.

Whilst on the toilet responding to that email because it couldn’t wait.

And then… When you’re sick of secretly dreaming, do it.

Take a step.

One at a time.

Don’t tell anyone, keep it to yourself until you are strong enough and sure enough to withstand the resistance you will inevitably encounter.

And marvel.

Marvel with eyes wide open, rising smile, quickening heart rate at what you discover along the way – or what finds you.

Observe that feeling of being alive again start to creep in.

Do you remember what it feels like? How many years ago you last felt that unrestrained-by-doubt, by the expectations of others, by hard life lessons, by adulting, visceral sensation of being alive?

Close your eyes and watch that dwindling fire, when oxygenated, starts to reignite.