My father once told me that I should never throw away anything I write, because perhaps one day it will come in use. He always said that using my creative mind and the products of it was never a waste. As much as a wise man my father is, sometimes it is really difficult not to just scrap everything in a flurry and proclaim loudly to the heavens "Fine! We're starting over! Again!"
Today, is such a day.
What is it about writing one day you truly love what you have done with your imagination and a few words, and the next day you think you were scrapping at the bottom of the proverbial brain barrel? Because seriously. I feel like that every now and then.
Did you know I have this magnificent world (well, magnificent to me) in my head. For the last, oh.. let me think, *Mumbles and counts fingers* 7 years this world has morphed, changed, apocalypsed, and come back together anew. Yet with the passing years I have visited it less and less. I have picked up a pencil and sketched out new thoughts with a dying frequency. I rarely seem to have time to quietly stroll through the Autumn lanes of my mind. Why? Because lately it feels like I have done an awful and dreadful thing which my father always warned me not to do.
I have started growing up.
And I do not mean in the way of, I grew up and learned to pay bills and work and take school seriously. No I rather think that is a part of becoming mature. No, no. Somewhere along the way, rather sneakily, growing up caught me. Or perhaps I apathetically succumbed to it. The jury is still out on that.
There were always points in your life where you had to mature. You had to learn to pay bills, and that not paying them meant no phone service. At some point you got a job and began working hard for money. You learn to take school seriously, because hey this thing costs a lot and education is important. I left childish things behind, matured, went to school, got married, and am trying to make a life for two. But nowhere in the Terms and Agreements for Maturing is there a clause saying you must Grow Up.
Although, perhaps 'grow up' is a poor term. I prefer, 'sold out'.
At some point we all stop being childish. If you don't, you have a problem. That doesn't mean we don't stop being child-like. Alive with that curiosity for the world. That ability to perceive and look at things in a light that no one else can. The wonder filled awe and things people would find simple. And the playful nature of living a day. I grew up as that child, the one who brought home a new stray everyday. My mother always said I kept her on her toes. I always had a new place or friend or story to tell her everyday. Even through high school, I liked to sit in the library and dream among books. The dreams of other dreamers.
And yet, today I wake up and I find that I have sold out, and grown up. I get up every morning and pull myself to a job I hate, but I do it. Why? Because of money. I go home tired and angry and occasionally get in a fight with my husband over things that aren't his fault. My garden in my front yard is becoming full of weeds. The house still is not unpacked. The bills still need to be paid. I still need to pick up this for my work. I have to hurry to catch the bus. Something is broken on the car, need to take it to the shop. We need to buy groceries. What to make for dinner? More like what is easiest to make.
My life has become something that I never even perceived of as a child: Mundane. Like the masses of people, my life is a day-to-day event. Just getting through one to get to the next. The thing that honestly bothers me most though is that I work for money. Which, I realize, sounds silly. Everyone works for money. But that is the only reason I am there. I truly despise that fact. There is no drive, there is no push to do better, there is no change, there is no challenge. There isn't even a chance to excel. Everyone higher than me makes it clear I am here to serve and this is where I belong.
In the chaos of living a life of the masses my daydreams slowly fade and become something put in a box marked "Things of Childhood".
But I don't belong here. Do I? Isn't there always a talk of working for something better? I knew it would be hard to get to the place I want to be, but I am not willing to sacrifice what I love about myself and life in order to get there. Otherwise once I get there, what will I have left? No story to tell. And that, is truly a crime.
Life should never be mundane, you shouldn't have to grow up and sell out. Life is meant to be an adventure, and at the end perhaps you shall have a grandiose story or two to share.
There is much I will sacrifice to get my husband and I through to a better time, but I will not give up who I am.