I stopped dreaming

At some point in my life I stopped dreaming. I’m not exactly sure when but I do remember at some stage in my life I had all manner of aspirations and plans for the future and then at some tipping point somewhere all of that changed and I became disillusioned. Maybe it was the slow wearing away of of a thousand small disappointments or maybe it was the shock of real life.

It feels like I’m living in near dusk on many levels. I am approaching my 30th birthday which puts me near the dusk of my twenties and we are moving towards the dusk of Western Civilization. Maybe its hard to dream as the sun is setting on things?

I wish my parents explained to me why I shouldn’t have wished so hard to be grown up. Why that spark of childlike wonder is worth so much more than the boring self-determination that modern adulthood brings.

Maybe my dreams were the result of growing up privileged. Part of the 1% in a country where abject poverty is everywhere. I guess it is only human to extrapolate past successes into future successes. And yet when I reached the point in my life where my parents’ influence ended the dreams stopped. After university there was no dream, passion fulfilling, be the hero role I could just step into. There was just the tedium and meaninglessness of adulthood for which I was ill prepared growing up on a mantra of “you can be anything you want.” Now as an adult I’m not quite sure what to do next. The recipe of the house, mortgage and flashy car holds no interest and it’s only easy to get a dream job if you actually have a choice in careers, not if you have to wake up everyday and be thankful that you at least have a job.

Thankfully at some stage the sheer momentum of life takes over and merrily drags you along a trajectory that you didn’t really intend and that your job doesn’t leave you enough energy to modify. Perhaps one only starts dreaming again after dark when the sun has set?


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I think I finally get it.