I'll be the first to admit, wholeheartedly, that I am not a good writer. In fact, I keep this blog for no other reason than to voice out diatribes that somehow escape through my strong filter. It doesn't really matter though, I love writing.
When I was younger, let's be creative and say perhaps 15 years younger or so, I used to write in a journal. I know this sounds like the worst teenage cliche, but I wrote in a journal for health reasons. I was worried my head would explode. It was actually a serious concern of mine. I actually thought that my head would explode. I was a teenager after all. Everything of very little consequence meant everything to me. Read that again. It actually does make sense.
I was a very optimistic, unspoiled person. I believed in everything. I'm proud to report that 15 years later, I can say that that is still almost true. Anyways, I loved writing. When I wrote, it was a way for me to explore those dreams that I used to have. I used to have so many dreams of travelling. That was what I wanted the most when I was younger, to travel. I wanted to explore. I wanted to experience. I wanted so much, just to embrace wherever it was I was. I don't think of this as a dream unfulfilled, but just a dream not yet obtained.
I loved creating stories of heroines exploring, learning new traditions, with no boundaries, with no limits. I dreamed so much.
I feel like we are the goalies to our own goals. We take the shot, and then somehow block them. We strike out to do something different, and then to our own chagrin, we block our own attempts. Should I say "we"? I suppose it's pretty presumptuous for me to speak for others, but it's a rather good guess. I had a goal a decade ago, a whole entire decade ago...(seriously, time, wtf?) that I would work in travel. I would meet so many interesting characters, I would drift in and out of people's lives, just as the waters of our wild oceans meander in and our of our lives, and I would see as much as my eyes could possible allow me to see.
...and now I work a 9-5. It happens. That doesn't mean anything though. I'm not throwing in the towel quite yet. Life is not done, it's not over, no one dares write my story except for me, so we'll see. I guess this is how I remain somewhat unspoiled, because I won't let anyone or anybody take away the possibility of possibilities. (again, read it...it actually does make sesnse).
Now if only I can stop being the all to hard working goalie against my own goals. The only doubts, the only obstacles to the goals we have in our lives, is us.