Extraordinarily Ordinary

Identity is such a strange concept.

Who am I? (Who am I outside of the context of others?)

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I think at some point, I stopped dreaming.

Ambition died; I was left with days filled with seeking the nearest form of pleasure.

I do not dream of a future career, affluence, or renown.

I do not fantasize about success or achievement.

What kind of future awaits a creature with no dreams?

How dull a person is if they do not strive for something more.

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I remember declaring that I would be the president, a pop star, a baker, or a professional chef.

I remember deciding I would dominate the globe by sixteen. (I was a rather odd child).

I had dreams of being a reclusive writer who lived in a sprawling estate in the countryside, filled with hidden rooms and complete with a garden filled with the most toxic of flowers.

I imagined myself as a fairy; someone who would awaken secret powers and save the world.

My life was to be filled with power, glory, intrigue, and whirlwind romances; fantasies straight out of the novels I consumed with such fervor.

I wonder if the girl I once was would be disappointed in me now.

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(I have things I care about, I have growth I prioritize, but are those dreams? I know that career is not the self, that identity is not shaped around one’s profession or creative pursuits but how then may I conceptualize the idea of the self? How can I dream of who I may be or who I wish to be if all that stands before me is an endless landscape of possibility?)