Sometimes I wonder what I am going to do with my life. Actually, scratch that. Not sometimes, most of the time. All the time. Everyday. What am I going to do? I don’t contemplate what my purpose is or why I was put on this Earth; philosophical questions make my head hurt. Rather, I think of the future, as I have been doing my whole life. I find I never really live in the moment. I am always looking at the past: what I did wrong; or at the future: what is to come, what I can possibly do, and if there is any chance in hell that my dreams will become a reality. There are days where I just sit on the couch, staring at a black television screen, pondering my days after university is finished. Should I travel? Should I get a degree? Should I take time off and work? Will I even finish? How will I pay for everything? Will I ever find a job? What do I want to do? And will I even be good enough to do it?
I’ve always hated the future, because for almost every scenario that happens, I envisioned it occurring a different way. I always imagine fantastic things, unexpected things, which make life more exciting or interesting. But when the time comes, reality falls short of my silent expectations. Always. And I know why.
I am incredibly unrealistic. I rarely express my desires verbally, for I know the chances and the likelihood of them happening are so remote that anyone who is listening would think me a fool. Yet I hold on deeply to these crazy dreams. The problem is that I never take any measure to at least try and ensure they become reality. I live in a silly, fictional world, where one day, while sitting at home, surfing the net, I’ll receive a call to work a job I would greatly enjoy. In my dreams I never make any effort yet things always happen. That’s not how it works in the real world and that, is a harsh reality.