Realistically

Realistically,

I’d be always alone, limited by my concept of love,

And I’ll end up childless or adopting late in life

as I focus on my life and become consumed by my job,

which I should be good at.

 

I’d want a big house to compensate for loneliness.

Apartment hunting (or forced to stay at my parents’).

With a malnourished yard and a pet craving for attention.

And I would tell others I am happy.

 

I’d get take-out food or starve myself.

And always alone, I’d stare at my plate.

I’d constantly visit others for food.

Food would be a surplus, but my heart would be empty.

 

I’d have a car, money, and a child.

Life would be satisfactory.

I’d force a smile on my face.

And it would be okay.

 

Because of everything I’d have.

Because of friends and family.

Because everyone can dream.

So ideally

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Ideally

Ideally,

I’d be married to someone I love.

And I’d have a kid or maybe two

as I juggle my life and my job,

which I should be good at and happy with.

 

I’d have a house big enough for family.

A house I paid for myself, not my parents.

With a nice yard for a pet or two or three.

And I would be settled and happy.

 

I’d get good food and a spouse that can cook.

And together as family, we’d eat together.

We’d eat with more family sometimes.

Food would be ample, and all would be merry.

 

I’d have a card, money, and family.

Life would be fulfilling.

I’d have a smile on my face.

And it would be great.

 

Because of everything I’d have.

Because of friends and family.

Because everyone can dream.

But realistically

Dream and My Future

The world is blank – white – as I stand silently. Everything is empty, silent, and it is as if I’m forced to a standstill, as if my feet are glued to the floor.

Only one other person stands before me – my father. But he’s dressed in scrubs, dressed for work.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asks.

“…A doctor,” I reply after a long silence. I could not even begin to guess where we are. Am I dreaming?

“No,” my dad says. “What do you really want?”

I don’t want to answer, but the silence kills me. I realize nothing will happen, and I would be stuck here forever if I don’t answer, glued to the floor.

“A… writer,” I mutter, saying my second choice, “but I really want to be a doctor…”

Thousands of bookshelves suddenly appear, sliding into place, and my dad gets one book out, saying, “Then?”

“Well…” is all i can say.

“There is nothing wrong with being a writer.” Suddenly, many people appear, taking books and looking through them. “As long as it’s something you want.”

“But – ”

“You can choose… or do both. Just do what you want.”

 

Empty Mirror

The world spins as I stand in complete darkness, the ground vibrating with each passing second. An oval mirror from my far left suddenly zooms to me, forcing me to look at myself.

Except I’m not there.

I place my hand on the glass mirror – blank and pure dark – until another hand from the other side of the glass holds mine.

A deathly cold hand.

That looks like my own. And I’m scared if I go closer, there’ll be some woman on the other side that appears, empty look in her face, devoid of life in her eyes – an empty shell. But I know this is true.

Because I am my own ghost who can no longer recognize myself.

Ultimate Fear

What scares me? Ha…

If we’re talking normal, everyday things, then social situations, eyedrops, etc. If we’re digging deeper, then my future. But if we’re saying my ultimate fear…

It’s forgetting.

Forgetting myself. My memories. My life. My everything.

And forgetting my stories. My characters.

The personalities, histories, dramas, worlds, and people I created.

I fear.

And that is why I write.