All night I had dreams of failure.
In one way or another I was failing.
As a playwright. As a friend. As a lover.
I kept waking up and turning around and looking at where I was.
I was in bed.
It was still dark. I hadn’t had the time to fail yet.
How did I fail? Plays never saw the light of the stage. Books remained unfinished. Stable income was illusive. I forgot important events and times. I didn't stay true to the things I wanted, to the person who I wanted to be. I became cold. I was alone.
Clearly, I am preoccupied with this idea of “failing” as of late. And clearly, as my thesis is being read tonight, this moment of transition and the unknown surrounding it are lingering in my thoughts long after I close my eyes.
In the light of day, I shrug off the failure.
I think that won’t happen. It just can't.
And then a sneaky voice comes in: what if you do though? What if all the things you dreamt of happen? Not everyone sees their dreams come true.
And I sigh because how am I supposed to win with this brain?
The truth is I can’t really know if my dreams were dreams or premonitions. I can say they were probably exaggerated. I can say they highlight real fears. I can say that I move ahead despite them. I can say I have a feeling in my belly that really this is the storm before the calm, this is the really tough part of the climb before the peak.
I can say I am looking ahead and there is mostly darkness and my little candle can only light so much.
I can say I am beginning to see new steps and paths, though I can only see the start of them.
I can say I hope these dreams…nightmares…were a one night thing.
Also, can I just say, fuck this anxiety thing. Like go bother someone else. Damn.