Homeless, Homeless, Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake…
I’m dreamless. It’s a painful, frustrating, soul-rending realisation to make. And yet… is it true? I’m going to talk my way through this as rationally as I can, because that’s the only way I’ll end up with any resolution. It’s probably too big a project for just one post, actually, so I’ll start small.
And I’ll intersperse it with beautiful photographs.
Part 1: Occupations I dreamt of
What did I use to dream of? Well, if we’re talking profession or occupation, I had my fair share of typical dreams. From the age of 9 to probably about 15, I hoped to be a novelist. I wanted to write books like Philip Pullman, or JRR Tolkien, my two literary heroes, with characters like JK Rowling’s. And I did enjoy writing. I have started dozens of stories, made countless character plans and utilised devices like no man’s business. But somehow I never quite made it past the first 2,000 words, and by the time I finished my obligatory education that dream had petered out. In part due to the realisation that I wasn’t, at least at this point in my life, someone with the perseverance to write more than vignettes. I still enjoy imagining and storytelling, but don’t have many people around me* who are interested in free-reign storytelling.
Partly, however, the dissipation of my storytelling was due to the rise of another dream: music. Not so different to storytelling! At 13 I fell in love with punk (a love that persists to this day) and though my passion shifted from punk, to heartland rock, to electro-pop, to electro-goth, to folk, to exclusively 60s and 70s music to what I currently see as a relatively happy medium I was always writing songs. From my first, rather embarrassing “Girl Called Skye”, written when I was 12 with two and a half chords, to my most recent “Chrysanthemums”, an ambitious alternatively-tuned heart-wrenching melody which overreaches itself in emotional scope music has been a wonderful outlet. I have to make myself stop talking about music now because I could fill a short story with the relationship between myself and my guitar(s).
I had other dreams too: I wanted at various stages to be a psychiatrist (spoken by a truly unbearably precious 11-year-old to her unassuming and rather baffled teacher), a music journalist, an editor, a professor, a travel writer, a cartoonist, a sailor and a tour guide. Some of those have stuck, some not, but the main dreams were and in a way still are writer, musician and most recently a meld of the two: poet.
Well, that’s it for dreams of occupation. Next time I’ll talk about images, emotions, situations and things I dreamed of.
What did you want to be when you were ‘little’?
*You’ll find, if you’re new to my blog, that this is a theme: I don’t have friends, is the crux of it. Sometimes I disagree with myself on this topic, but a footnote isn’t the place to go into it at length.
P.S. This was really hard for me to write. I’m living within large, thick walls and I’m trying to get them down. I’m a cliche on toes. I find it hard to trust and so hard to be open; finding this out surprised me immensely. More on this at a later date when I’m a bit less frightened.
God, this is so weird. Why am I so scared? But I am. SO scared. There have been very few people I have ever been able to speak to about this. And most of them are gone – or rather now that I think about it perhaps I subconsciously picked them because I knew they wouldn’t be there a week later.