They sold us dreams. They sold us dreams so they could get what they wanted, and convinced us to want what they were willing to give.
I’m from a generation that doesn’t want big toys. We don’t want a home in suburbia that looks like the rest. We despise minivans and trophies for showing up. We don’t want to raise a nuclear family on this waste they have left us.
We are human, last time I checked. We prefer not to be castrated for a difference of opinion, one not rooted in bigotry or grown from misguided hatred.
The world that has been built cannot sustain the human spirit. It is built to bind that which creates into submission for a few dreams. We are working to ruin these so-called pillars of strength that have only sought to uphold the Big Dream.
We fear not the failure to achieve our dreams, but that we will not eat, have a place to sleep, and health to live. We decide not to turn to a life of crime, yet the expectation of our dedication to the Big Dream eats away at the energy of this experience we call life.
This is my experience.
I know what it’s like to live a life without work, without income, for fifteen months. It’s not fun eating just oatmeal every day for four months, nor is it healthy. When you have just ten dollars in the bank, and everyone ignores your attempts to find work, your career filtered through some algorithm because a lazy ass employer can’t be bothered to actually read your application and resume… you hate everything.
Thirteen of those fifteen months I spent virtually alone in one room. Writing. Writing my fucking heart and soul out. People responded to it… people I never met, and will never meet. The people I did know didn’t give a fuck. All they wanted was for me to go back to working a miserable job and shut up.
Desperation set in, sure, but my love for writing has never wavered. I am a writer and I believe I have always been. Artwork is fun, but it’s not the most fulfilling for me.
Two and a half years into the job I have now, and I do not feel any closer to my goal of being a full-time writer and author. I’m not even a part time writer. I’ve never had a paying writing gig.
I’m on the fifth draft of my novel, which already has a sequel, and I’m finding it hard to write, for that constant feeling of, even if I do accomplish it, nobody’s going to read it. Like the last four times I’ve tried.
I just want to do what I love without being sick, in poverty, and without a place to sleep. Sure, I’m doing well financially, but at the cost to my time, freedom, and life. The only reason I stay up late is to actually have time to myself. I’m sacrificing my time, for who? It certainly doesn’t seem to be me.