Having a dream is a lot like having an imaginary friend:
Your friends are constantly worried about how crazy you’re gonna look, but they don’t know how to tell you. So they tell you anyway without going through the trouble of being very tactful about it. Your family has to function as the unofficial PR team burdened with the uncomfortable task of explaining your idiosyncratic behavior while answering difficult questions about your odd little choices.You’re always talking about how much you love something (something that no one else can see) while everyone just nervously hopes you grow out of your phase before it’s too late.
And then it happens:
you give in to the pressure to be ‘normal” and you trade in your opportunity for an unconventional life to enjoy the luxurious privilege of not having to explain why you’re so weird. Everyone feels safe around you again since you’re no longer being the rogue/rebel trope in their otherwise neat and tidy narrative. And you get to be called “mature” and “rational” because you finally pierced through the silly illusion that little ole *you* was ever capable of perceiving realities that no one else could see.
Not me. Not ever. I choose to be who I truly am. I choose to break the mold.