From the other side of the dream, the hazy pastel perfection is muddied. The grass is green but brown tipped, moisture-less. The people are starry eyed and their shoes are patched from neglect.
My friends, my fellow quarter life crises-goers, it is not dreamy wonderland living the dream life. It is reality, same as usual, and there’s no cake and no fairies bouncing around to make life a living paradise. No, reality is still the same. Still gritty, occasionally terrible, occasionally transcendental. Of course you know that. Of course you knew, really, that living your dream wouldn’t be all fun and games. Someone will spill the mayo. Every time.
I had a dream to move to Korea and teach. It was going to be an everyday miracle, to wake up in another country, see my students’ smiling faces, share something joyous and wondrous with them, awaken desire for learning, experience culture in a beautiful nation…
I don’t want to rain on my own parade, but it’s hardly like that. Waking up at 5am anywhere is torture, and my students are just kids, not figments of my imagination, so they cry and get in fights and ask me to repeat myself fifty million times…less sylvan glades of learning and more crowd control in a mob.
But that’s not to say I’m unhappy. Of course I’m happy. I’m working a fulfilling job, and I am in another country, surrounded by the language I love and living independently. All those are part of a dream. But it’s not rosy, self. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, says my self. A chant for the sidewalks as my feet strain against the 9 hour days.
So my mind turns again inward, to further dreams, wilder dreams, and again my imagination is caught and swept away from the present to bounds of freedom unrealizable.
Again I wax poetic to cover up the dismal mundanity of real life.