The Impossible Dream

This is my quest. 

I was born to write.

When I write I don’t aim to stay relevant, I merely aim to stay true to the moment or to the muse from which I’ve drawn inspiration. The energy expended from having to be cool or to be hip to find an audience is exhausting. 

This might be one of the reasons why my words have failed to produce a return on their investment and why I’m beginning to develop a little resentment for these musings of mine that I throw into the ether periodically. 

I love words, but I hate them a little too because they hold dominion over me.  They force me to bear witness to much of the unbearable sorrows that might plague my days. 

I grew up part of the generation where I went to work to earn a living because I had to work and fulfillment in my craft was always a secondary, if all together a  non-existent goal. Work was a means for providing support to my family, as the village that it took to raise me required financial assistance. 

As I’ve grown older and I’ve built a career for myself, I realized that there could be fulfillment outside the realm of my daily responsibilities if I pursued my dreams diligently and my dreams were always cloaked in the realm of writing. 

I’ve been diligent, without question or pause. 

The Oxford English Dictionary and I have grown from strange bedfellows to best friends in my pursuit for literary recognition.  

I have reached for that star. 

I’ve been faithful to the craft I love. I have toiled with words and sentences for a rather long time, this blog being just one of the many endeavors where I’ve honed my art and delivered eclectic messages to anonymous readers who periodically tell me they enjoy my work. 

Yes, I consider my work verbal and literal art. I view the blank page as a canvas,  with my thoughts acting as a brush, with each stroke forming a letter, with each combination helping to compose the words that will join together to depict my point of view. 

I’ve heard so many compliments related to those points of view and use of language that I’ve started to believe that this coupling of written expression with my  slightly off center ramblings could be a way for me to earn my keep and finally find that elusive fulfillment that my generation was not supposed to pursue. 

It has not happened and I question if it ever will. I must keep my day job, I can’t score a literary agent and each word I put on the page is a gentle reminder that my till of creativity is being drawn from each day  for a price somewhere between gratis and writer’s block. I’m afraid the well of thought is going to come up as empty as my eager pockets have all these years. Still, I fight for the right to write. 

I read this employment guide called, ‘What Color Is Your Parachute?’ and I want the share of fulfillment I am supposed to feel in my work. I want to do what I love and have the money follow. I want to wake up on a weekday with the same joy and enthusism I greet Saturday morning. I want the color of my parachute to be the color of happy and not a shade of muted, stormy grey called ‘Monday Morning Blue’. Still, I face each Monday valiantly and willing, also without question or pause. 

I continue my pursuit of this impossible, quite possible dream because no matter how hopeless and how far it seems, I will fight for its right to be mine. Fulfillment be found or be damned, I will write, until I reach that unreachable star. 

This is my quest. 

  

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