Requiem for a Dream
Despite the fact that a movie with this title precedes this article, the fact remains that this title felt most appropriate for what I wanted to write. That aside...
"Silent rays of light burst forth over the horizon, illuminating the path before me. During the night I had dreamed of what lay in the darkness, fantasizing about kingdoms and magic. I stand disenchanted, the dim reality of it all mocking my innocent dreams. My life is more clear; the dreams of my callow youth fade as the darkness does to light. Though I feel a pain at this destruction, I see reality, no less beautiful by my worthless and stupid dreams."
I've taken lately to trying to create random short creative pieces for my AIM profile. Though I know no one reads them, I figure that it's a good exercise in honing my writing skills, even if they may never be good enough for that which I want to do. The reason I threw this in here is because this piece I wrote earlier tonight for my profile shows a theme that's been recurring in my mind for the last few days. Lately I've been looking at the future a lot, trying to penetrate the cloud of obscurity that obstructs our view to the uncertain future. Though there's always a great element of futility in attempting to ascertain events that have not yet happened, there's a sort of unavoidable attraction towards catching glimpses of our futures.
The more I look forward however, the more miserable I feel. Each day I feel a growing disdain for the path I've chosen, but I know that nothing else will make me any happier. I've always had dreams of just writing stories all my life, be it for movies, t.v. shows, comics, books, whatever. But these dreams were a child's silly daydreams, and I've hung on to them for too long. I can't expect real success as a writer. Considering that some of these entries represent my writings at their best, it's easy to understand why my success as a writer is something of a pipedream that can only be had within a dream. That is how far removed from reality my dreams are. The bittersweet pangs of sadness tear at me from the inside when I think this, because it has been my greatest ambition for years now to be a writer. Looking around at reality though, I know that I will never be a writer. Though I will try when time and life permits, I know that it is a wasted enterprise.
I have never been exceptional at writing and I have no reason to believe that I ever will be. Not many writers without talent make it as writers. If I had any kind of inherent exceptional writing prowess, I should have been recognized by now. As it stands, most of my works are usually so boring that it's amazing if someone can even stomach a short paragraph of mine. Mind you, I'm not insinuating that other people are at fault; I'm just stating that what I write is usually so boring that it causes people grief to read too much more. This is a reality I'm coming to accept, bursting the pipedream and aspirations to literary greatness that I might have once harbored. Though I feel like there is an inherent brilliance to my ideas and stories, they are my children, and so of course I am proud of them. They retain no value beyond that though, and stand as mere conceptual shells, hollow from the lack of soul and depth of their creator.
My dreams must fade from my vision of reality. There is no room in life for a man blinded by silly fantasies. I will likely not enjoy overly much the jobs I will do in the coming future, but many people do not like their jobs. At least they choose useful positions and are of utility to society. I'm a philosophy major. Basically, I'm majoring in uselessness and futility, bordering insanity with my stupid choices. I should have chosen something more useful, even if I wouldn't have liked the classes. To be honest, right now, I don't really like the classes either. At least if I were studying something like science I'd at least be doing something good for society.
I have to find my shallow and meaningless niche in society soon. Once that niche is found, I need to stop meddling in other peoples' lives and fulfill the purpose for which evolution created me: to serve others and be a worthless cog in a wonderful machine. I'm extent, unnecessary crap cluttering up the grand design; failing to know my place I attempt to forge a new one, risking the whole damn enterprise all together. Why I am so greedy and so focused on my own needs is beyond me, but it needs to stop. The day when my dreams mattered or were allowed to exist has past. The days has come for me to grow up, and abolish all my silly fantasies about achieving greatness as a writer, about being some weird and amazing teacher who teaches his students about life, about being a great parent. Given my current state and lack of an interesting personality, I find it hard to believe that I'll ever be tolerable or likeable enough for anyone to become romantically interested in me. Though I say I'd adopt if I'm not married by age 30, I'd hate to raise a child alone because then it would have all of my flaws because there'd be no mother to hinder the transfer of stupidity from parent to child.
The only place left for my dreams is the remote part of my heart from which they came. My esoteric soul is a thing of songs, of poems, and religion, but deep within its imaginary walls lies a small spot. In that spot is housed all the innocent and reckless ambition of the human imagination, finding refuse in a remote spot of the total sum of our being. In this way our daydreams carry from generation to generation, always managing to avoid being weeded out. The corner of my imaginary heart, my fabricated soul has been and will always, a requiem for my dreams, dumb as they may be.
"Silent rays of light burst forth over the horizon, illuminating the path before me. During the night I had dreamed of what lay in the darkness, fantasizing about kingdoms and magic. I stand disenchanted, the dim reality of it all mocking my innocent dreams. My life is more clear; the dreams of my callow youth fade as the darkness does to light. Though I feel a pain at this destruction, I see reality, no less beautiful by my worthless and stupid dreams."
I've taken lately to trying to create random short creative pieces for my AIM profile. Though I know no one reads them, I figure that it's a good exercise in honing my writing skills, even if they may never be good enough for that which I want to do. The reason I threw this in here is because this piece I wrote earlier tonight for my profile shows a theme that's been recurring in my mind for the last few days. Lately I've been looking at the future a lot, trying to penetrate the cloud of obscurity that obstructs our view to the uncertain future. Though there's always a great element of futility in attempting to ascertain events that have not yet happened, there's a sort of unavoidable attraction towards catching glimpses of our futures.
The more I look forward however, the more miserable I feel. Each day I feel a growing disdain for the path I've chosen, but I know that nothing else will make me any happier. I've always had dreams of just writing stories all my life, be it for movies, t.v. shows, comics, books, whatever. But these dreams were a child's silly daydreams, and I've hung on to them for too long. I can't expect real success as a writer. Considering that some of these entries represent my writings at their best, it's easy to understand why my success as a writer is something of a pipedream that can only be had within a dream. That is how far removed from reality my dreams are. The bittersweet pangs of sadness tear at me from the inside when I think this, because it has been my greatest ambition for years now to be a writer. Looking around at reality though, I know that I will never be a writer. Though I will try when time and life permits, I know that it is a wasted enterprise.
I have never been exceptional at writing and I have no reason to believe that I ever will be. Not many writers without talent make it as writers. If I had any kind of inherent exceptional writing prowess, I should have been recognized by now. As it stands, most of my works are usually so boring that it's amazing if someone can even stomach a short paragraph of mine. Mind you, I'm not insinuating that other people are at fault; I'm just stating that what I write is usually so boring that it causes people grief to read too much more. This is a reality I'm coming to accept, bursting the pipedream and aspirations to literary greatness that I might have once harbored. Though I feel like there is an inherent brilliance to my ideas and stories, they are my children, and so of course I am proud of them. They retain no value beyond that though, and stand as mere conceptual shells, hollow from the lack of soul and depth of their creator.
My dreams must fade from my vision of reality. There is no room in life for a man blinded by silly fantasies. I will likely not enjoy overly much the jobs I will do in the coming future, but many people do not like their jobs. At least they choose useful positions and are of utility to society. I'm a philosophy major. Basically, I'm majoring in uselessness and futility, bordering insanity with my stupid choices. I should have chosen something more useful, even if I wouldn't have liked the classes. To be honest, right now, I don't really like the classes either. At least if I were studying something like science I'd at least be doing something good for society.
I have to find my shallow and meaningless niche in society soon. Once that niche is found, I need to stop meddling in other peoples' lives and fulfill the purpose for which evolution created me: to serve others and be a worthless cog in a wonderful machine. I'm extent, unnecessary crap cluttering up the grand design; failing to know my place I attempt to forge a new one, risking the whole damn enterprise all together. Why I am so greedy and so focused on my own needs is beyond me, but it needs to stop. The day when my dreams mattered or were allowed to exist has past. The days has come for me to grow up, and abolish all my silly fantasies about achieving greatness as a writer, about being some weird and amazing teacher who teaches his students about life, about being a great parent. Given my current state and lack of an interesting personality, I find it hard to believe that I'll ever be tolerable or likeable enough for anyone to become romantically interested in me. Though I say I'd adopt if I'm not married by age 30, I'd hate to raise a child alone because then it would have all of my flaws because there'd be no mother to hinder the transfer of stupidity from parent to child.
The only place left for my dreams is the remote part of my heart from which they came. My esoteric soul is a thing of songs, of poems, and religion, but deep within its imaginary walls lies a small spot. In that spot is housed all the innocent and reckless ambition of the human imagination, finding refuse in a remote spot of the total sum of our being. In this way our daydreams carry from generation to generation, always managing to avoid being weeded out. The corner of my imaginary heart, my fabricated soul has been and will always, a requiem for my dreams, dumb as they may be.
posted by Andrew McKenna at 9:00 PM
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