People used to ask me: what do you want to be when you grow up?
I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to weave words into images, where colors filled the scene with songs, where characters flew and morphed into different pieces of me.
And now, I still want to tell tales of the magnificent and of the maleficent, but my words tread in my head quietly. Someday soon, though, they will grow strong and break free from their confines.
My hands yearn to be other things as well. They stretch before me and I see myself as an artist, a chef, a dog whisperer.
But people have stopped asking me what I want to be when I grow up. Does that mean I have to stop dreaming?
Why do we stop asking ourselves what we want to be? Do we stop dreaming? Do we stop striving to be better than what we are right now?
Hell. This is the last time I listen to Joni Mitchell in the middle of the afternoon.