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When Dreams Eat Goals

Inherently, dreams are a type of hunger.

Now I love food as much as the next guy. I also love some of the motivational butt-kicking that my dreams barf out for me to organize into goal-setting. But I’m not about to eat my own puke.

Alright this started off way too weird and symbolic. Let’s go back to the beginning.

Hey there, you. Welcome to this post. It’s absolutely not going to mention vomit. Mostly.

With the changing of the weatherly seasons, so too do I usually experience a progressive shift in my moods, dreams, and motivations. I see this as a healthy rebirth when the winds outside dull and the Swampy Sweatfest sets in. Physically we begin shedding layers of clothing. I revel in the opportunity to also slink my metaphysical self from a chunky sweater and boots to a flouncy tank top and flip flops.

The latter part of the calendar year and its impending reset button, riddled with fleeting proclamations of resolution and hefty dreaming, are the most perfect and most terrifying phase of life for me. Like clockwork, every stroke of midnight, I begin to dream hard and seemingly fail harder. But this year was going to be different. Last year was the start of something bigger, newer, scarier, and better. And I wasn’t about to let this year, on a good upswing as it were, fall prey to the same tilt-a-whirl of emotion. I sat myself down and had a chat with my insides to figure out why this keeps happening.

The Cliffs Notes conclusion: I flip the goal switch back to dream.

I suppose it’s a method of self-preservation that I do this. If I allow for the goals I haven’t achieved or made much progress to bring them closer to accomplished to revert back to the “someday” and “wouldn’t it be wonderful if” arena of existence, did I really fail at making them a reality? No.

But also very much yes.

Because I’m doing something much worse.

I’m recycling my brain and my heart. But not in that way that saves the planet and keeps duck legs out of soda can ring holder things. I’m spinning them through a machine that, with each process of reuse, its tumbler tarnishes and dulls. It becomes incapable of being a machine of fresh generation as the other moving parts, each creative cog and intellectual wheel, become rusty and idle. It’s the very thing rendering a factory closed because a robot could do the same thing this facility is doing; they’d do it faster and with less emotional interference.

With the mind of a innovator, this carnival ride is more dangerous than wearing platform sneakers to meet the height requirement. Eventually I’m going to fly off the ride. My neglected parts will splay in a manner that even I won’t be able to put each back in their rightful place.

So we keep our goals our goals and continue to dream bigger dreams. Keeping them both separate yet also very connected. They need to communicate with one another to maintain balance. They should speak in beautiful tongues and not bleeps and bloops and certainly never buzzers.

Dream hard. Goal harder.

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