Because dreaming costs money, my dear.
Dreams, I have learned, come with a price tag. It's a luxury, a privilege that is easily bought by the rich. To eat food with a stainless spoon is a humiliation. I feel ashamed of my dreams, paralyzed with the realization that no matter how hard I try, the distance will remain far-flung. And no matter how strong my willingness to work, the universe will find its cruelest way to stop and discourage me.
Most days, I would question if the journey I am heading on is even worth fighting, worthy of trying? I can't help but think maybe I am the only one, alone in the universe, who is putting in a great deal of effort? It's easy to generalize and proclaim the distinctness of my struggles, but what do I do instead when the pain becomes unbearable? When shame and rage gnaw you to the bone, the only thing left is to despair over the time you have wasted.
Maybe what I am writing here doesn't make sense. Was it simpler to say, I’m jealous? Jealous of those with an easy and stable life, those who are lucky enough not to think about college every night, those whose dreams can be achieved by just a single swipe of a card. Who do I blame for my misery?
Lord, I know that envy is a sin. But what can I do to soothe my grief? I tried to be pure; I tried to ignore the wretched blood stain that trails behind my path. But you cannot ignore who you really are. I know that these crimson drops from the floor all lead back to the truth: that dreaming costs money I cannot provide.
I remember the night in 2022, the night we fought. You asked, rage in your voice, What would I do if I passed? And it struck me that no amount of relentless efforts will be enough to salvage the truth of our conditions. That moment, I knew that my dream was shattered. The world taught me one thing—you have to prove yourself first to the limits before the world gives you mercy.
How many dreams are there in the world that were shattered? Infinite. Dreams are stars we bury in the night sky. The universe is nothing but a graveyard of all broken dreams.
To catch our dreams, like stars, from the ground is a declaration of impossibility. How do I reach my dreams if my afternoons and mornings, which could’ve been used for continuous reviewing, are booked with endless chores and obligations? It's tiring, but God knows that I don't have a choice. God also knows how I wish to trade my day and my time with someone who had it better. Oh God, I have it awful and arduous.
The time to work for your dreams here is a luxury. There are days I would feel left behind, wounded by my imaginary competitors who are already an inch from the finish line. I would then succumb to this madness, fever-high and too disillusioned to even barely function. But I know myself—I will rise from the grave. I dreamed of a dream where dead stars are brought back to life, reborn from the ashes that extinguished them. I will try and try again and again, even if it feels futile. I will work double, triple, or quadruple than what's the standard. I will play the violin and let its symphony transcends into the troposphere. And maybe, maybe then, when I have something to prove, the universe will finally grant me the possibility to ignite my dreams back to reality.