Today's Muse: My glasses are held together with wire.

Each time I attempt to articulate my disappointment or anger, or those more, emotional, moments, it always seems to come out contrived and whiny. It feels insincere; that I'm simply making mountains out of molehills. I mean, what do I know of unhappiness?

I've always meant to address the issue of "venting" on a public domain like the internet - I think it's, in short, stupid. It's like advertising; one is looking for sympathy and attention.

But we do, don't we?

So, as I go on to vent, am I looking for sympathy? Attention? Why do I write here, instead of on paper, never to be shown to the world?

Why am I dwelling on the discomfort, anyway?



Some dreams disappear without our noticing. They ebb away, bit by bit, ever so slowly. Those sort of leavings never hurt. Perhaps a dull sort of surprise from us when they're gone, but never hurt.

Other dreams we cast off ourselves, usually for bigger, shiner dreams. Or we build on the original; embellishing and expanding until the tiny, humble idea is hidden under flourishes and baubles. We forget them, eventually, moving on.


And certain dreams are ripped from us.


It's made doubly painful by the fact that you knew the dream was doomed from the start. Haven't you had dreams like that? Dreams you knew, oh, knew very well would never come into being. But still you persisted, hiding the truth with optimism and maybe, just maybe...

I think that reaction is trained into us from young; to believe even though we know it is futile. Think about the stories we were fed - the endless Christmas movies! Conditioning us to hope for the impossible. As we grow older there are more stories - A band of unlikely heroes defeat the greatest power in the land? A scrawny boy transformed into a superpowered hero? A terminal patient miraculously cured? - and so on and so forth...

And so on and so forth.

And you know, oh, you know very well that it was a silly thing to hope for, and you're being foolish putting so much emotion into it. You shouldn't feel like you've been torn to pieces; you shouldn't feel like you've been emptied. You should be laughing it off, like a grown, mature person. You should be shrugging your shoulders and rolling your eyes.

And yet you find your eyes a tad too wet.

And you know, you know all too well that you will eventually be laughing at and shrugging your shoulders and rolling your eyes at your current grief. And this knowledge saddens you; that one day your dead dream will no longer matter to you. That you will cease to care.

And there is nothing you can do.

Oh, go to bed Missy, you melodramatic twerp. Don't you dare start sniffling.