I believe in the impossible. I always have. Or maybe not always, but at least for as long as I can remember.
I believe the world is good. I believe life is awesome. I believe people are mostly kind and that they mostly do fucked up things when they’re scared or fucked up. I believe that beauty IS in the eye of the beholder and that I am the beholder, and therefor I can make anything beautiful.
But mostly I believe in yes. I believe that I can do everything I want to, everything I set my mind to. And, crazily enough, not even the setbacks, the nos, the failures, make me believe otherwise. I also believe everyone else can do anything they want, if they’re willing to do the work, to take the pain, to let go of the things that stop them and push through it all. My optimism, my happy-go-lucky, my “I can” surprises some people, inspires others, and irritates more people than I’d like to admit. (“Oh my god, enough with the eternal optimism crap. The world doesn’t work like that.” — I’ve heard that more than a few times, mostly from partners or co-workers).
But I still believe. I walk my own path. It gets me where I want to go (eventually). Or it takes me somewhere just as awesome. That’s a fine thing too, usually.
I’ve got a lot of impossible dreams right now. Finish and publish three novels that are in the works. Finish and publish my memoir. Travel more. Buy a house. Do less freelance and more creative work. In the midst of that, I need health insurance, a teeth cleaning, enough money to eat and live.
Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. Money and heart do not a proper equation make. I want a home space so badly I can taste its basil garden, can touch its golden-painted walls, can feel the slip of the key into the front door. I want the books so badly that I can feel their heft, see their covers, flip through their pages.
How, how, how? That’s what I’m asking now. How to put money aside by the end of the year for a down payment on something? How to do the work that needs to be done? How to achieve the things I want? I don’t know. I don’t know. I never know. It’s like a spinning disk in my brain, whirring all the time, but it’s still saying, “unreadable, unreadable.” Take it out, clean it off, put it back in. If you do it enough times, eventually it will read the thing.
Don’t give up. Do the work. Create the impossible dream. Isn’t this what we writers do?
I can’t see anything but the dark from where I sit. But I’ve never been scared of the dark. That’s home. That’s where I belong: in the dark of night, feeling my way toward an impossible day.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.