There is a Cost in the Knowing

It aches sometimes.

(This is a lie; it aches all the time.)

The sad thing about being told to pursue your dream is that, most of the time, our dream fall flat before our feet as we slowly begin to learn our own limitations. I’ve had many dreams over the years. Some were entirely outrageous, and I knew so, even if it was only a little voice in the back of my head acknowledging that my flight of fancy was just that: unrealistic imaginings.

But then there were those dreams that evolved with me, with who I gradually became as an individual. Those dreams were an integral part of me, because I grew around their shapes and shadows. If I’d never had those dreams, I would not have pushed myself in the ways that I did, my branches wouldn’t have twisted into their own unique form.

Once those dreams all died, one by one, so too did my shape. Until all that was left was a dry, empty husk, my trunk charred, the smoke still rising from the burnt ashes enclosing me on all sides.

The thing is, those few who are molded by their dreams and go on to achieve them are full of branches that are lush, thick, full of wick. While I remember the magic garden of my childhood, where all my dreams were planted in an orderly row, others continue to carefully prune and pluck and sow all their lives.

I don’t have that option.

This is a difficult reality to come to terms with. I’m not saying that I am done growing as a person. Far from it. I believe that we evolve each day, hour, and minute until our lives expire. Maybe someday in the future my tree will have lovely vines wrapped around the trunk. Maybe from the ashes of my branches a green moss will grow. But vines are a parasite, and moss a fungus, and I will always miss those branches that were my own, not thankful for a symbiotic relationship that grew out of the ashes of my defeat.

I know my own limitations. I know the heights and depths of my own soul. It is not pretty. Nor is it ugly. It is special, and wonderful, but it is limited. I know who and what I am, and what I am capable of, and I know now what my true dream is. The final dream, the one that you discover has been there all along, and you will never want to do or be anything else. It is the absolute centre of my soul, and utterly unattainable.

Ashes spread at my feet.

Yes, it is a specific sort of despair to know that who you were born to become is forever out of reach.