“The hardest thing about having a dream is living with whatever happens to you when it dies”- Matt Posky
Shit happens, they say. And, for a long time now, I’ve been wading deep in some. So yes, I could honestly say most of my dreams have died along the way, and it always feels like some part of me also dies whenever I give up one, and I’m always left alone to grieve and to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. It can really be bewildering at times–being lost and unsure about what to do next, or where to go from the many slumps. Indeed, living with broken dreams is the hardest thing. And the hardest part is that there isn’t the comfort of blaming somebody else.
But I realize how minimal my choices were. I had to give up those dreams and build new ones, hoping against doubts and uncertainties, that they will somehow pull through, and pull me through. And when I consider the alternative, like, for instance, giving up, I couldn’t bear the thought of letting down people I love, or the fear of what will happen to them if I let go, or let go of them or of the dreams we share. As Dorothy Parker says, “might as well live”. A liberal construction of living would imply dying an existential death and still finding a way to live through the devastation.
So I wonder, do dreams really die? Or they just get replaced by something better or something less than they are? Or they just get deferred?