Beatbox baby.

Dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams. What will become of us if all we do is dream, right? Wrong. I had a dream once. I wanted to be someone. Someone in that house somewhere, with that one girl in that one place? Not exactly. I wanted to be known, to be loved, to have a life. I wanted to fall asleep at night with a smile, knowing I was changing someone's life for the better. All my life since college has been stuck in a rut, a box if you will. This box is my mind and I just can't seem to kick the habit. Believe me, I've tried so hard. I went to school to be everything. I wanted to be a musician at one time. I loved that feeling I got when I heard a beat, the never changing pattern of fret after fret on a guitar's neck. I had passion, drive and ambition. At the time, I never realized that I was actually who I wanted to be all along. I loved life. Not bad looking, pretty talented. The thing is, I had spent so many years doing different things, different classes. I was so unsure of the future that I felt taking classes and constant working would make up for that empty part of me. The one day that is burned in my memories as the day I lost my individuality happened in art school, art college to be correct. I had spent weeks and weeks drawing, painting, and finalizing a magnificent red rose. I poured all my heart and soul into this rose. I loved roses. This was a lovely painting of mine, the rich red color, the way it feels like velvet, even the thorns. I had blended many colors into making this smooth, deep red. The rose was forever an imagination in my mind, that I finally had a chance to show. All my professor could do was shake his head. He told me it wasn't perfect enough. I told him that not everything needs to be perfect to be something. I got a big, fat laugh right in my face. He asked me why I was even at the school. That's when it happened. The few sentences that could make someone feel so cold. "Well, it is simply my dream". "Dreams? Dreams are stupid. Dreams are for young, ignorant children. Ha. You are pathetic, you can never amount to greatness with imagination. Dreams. Come on. That's just stupid, go home". Go home? That I did. I didn't leave home for weeks. All I did was mull over those words. Sure, I could've moved on. But that was my dream. My dream is now unimportant, and will never be what it once was. So now I'm stuck in this box, confined to my home for what one man said to me. The saying was sticks and stones, but his words were bullets ripping through my heart. I'm forever a nobody, never a somebody. My mind is blank, like a cloudy day. I am lost with all the other "nobodies", who were told to "go home". Like a rose is beautiful, life is too. It's all what you make of it. My life is nothing but a thorn. A nasty, ugly, thorn. All thanks to me, and letting time pass me by.

Today's assignment in Humanities was to write a story from the above picture. I had some challenges at first, trying to think of what to write. I thought of when Mr.Ross had told us of a little girl who was told that one flower in a field was the most beautiful, when she thought all were beautiful. If we just adapted this unknowingly brilliant little girl's words to everyday life, dreams would never be something unattainable. Dreams are amazing, and that's what they are. Dreams. They have no guidelines or rules. Dream freely.

Peace.

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