You have no idea how much I wanted this. I wanted it in a way that scared me. I wanted it so much that I couldn’t even let myself dream of it. Do you understand?
I wanted it so much, I had to try very hard to convince myself that I didn’t want it. Once in a while. Once in every long while I’d find myself picturing it. Not merely imagining it, but seeing it as much as it could be seen; feeling it as much as it could be felt – how it would be, the sun shining as I float around.
Wanting it so deeply, but so scared at the same time. So absolutely fucking scared. Because what are the odds? What are the odds of all of that coming true? To a dreamer it would probably seem like it wasn’t so hopeless. But I was no dreamer. Life had drilled that out of me.
So what was the point? What was the point in torturing myself by picturing it and dreaming of it. So I stuffed it down into the dark hole inside of me.
Once in every long while it came up with such fury, I would scream. I wanted to tear out my own lungs in punishment. In punishment of myself because I was so useless and so unlucky and so disadvantaged and ultimately so inept and so helpless that I couldn’t even make my own dream come true. Or let myself dream.
I wanted to haul myself at the table and throw myself at the wall. I wanted to die. I felt that I would rather die than not have it. But I had to give myself that glimmer of a chance to make it. And look at me today.
Look at me now. Do you see me? Have I made it? Look at me. Have I made it? No. But I am no longer afraid to try.
