I’m reading The House of Doors by Tan Twan Eng and at one point Somerset Maugham is eager to produce more writing because he needs money. He, in case you’re not familiar with the book, is one of the characters in the story.
One person’s job is another person’s dream. Writing isn’t something we associate with making money today — creative writing especially.
I wondered how I would treat my dream if my life depended on it.
Dreams live in the ethereal realm. Jobs stand heavy on the soil and asphalt of the existential plane. While, upon initial inspection, one is more real than the other we live in those two worlds, sometimes in equal intensity or even more.
The dream, whatever it may be, is the padding that fills the gaps of our daily life. It’s the sweet goal we work towards in the most precious minutes of the day after securing our survival in these bodies.
The obligation isn’t to be realistic, it’s to treat the dream with utmost respect, devotion and trust. We shield babies and dogs of all age from the harshness of the elements, society and our own potential darkness. They don’t understand, neither do dreams.
So pick your delusions, otherwise they will be chosen for you. The future doesn’t exist. Let’s plow forward with enthusiasm and spite. You’re not self-absorbed. The anticipation of success is the superstar of belief, the sacred rebellion of the soul. Life just might depend on it.