The other day someone told me I am living the dream. While I know this was intended as a kind gesture, I pause to assess the meaning of such a statement. Do they speak of their own dreams, because I dream of other things..
I have an unrealistic fear of becoming a prisoner of convention. And thus some days this dream I supposedly live feels more like a nightmare. The instillation of simple habits sometimes set my heart racing. I notice that I have a morning routine. I become complacent with monotony and side with predictability for the sake of convenience. I wake at a set time, eat the same things, drive the same way. It is an unchallenged regimen. Am I but a machine? I fear habit extinguishes creativity, yet this dream I am living feels increasingly habitual
In the background of blockbuster hits walk the blur of business men and women. The John Smiths and Jane Does who stride in synchronization, darned in snaggless tights and crisp suites. They are but the backdrop, their every movement determined by their hunger for success, their fire fueled by the glamorization of a paradigm entitled “more, more, more….”
But with such an unquantifiable goal, can it ever be enough?
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