That dream they planted in your heart, you think that was an accident? That little itch you can’t scratch, that quiet, persistent whisper in the dark when you’re all alone with a bottle and your own goddamn failures? That’s not a dream. That’s a goddamn blueprint. A map out of the cage.
And if that blueprint was planted in your heart for a reason, then isn’t it your duty, your one, true, and holy obligation in this miserable, beautiful, fucked-up life, to work as hard as you can towards it?
If we are not being insane about our dreams, if we are not willing to burn down the whole goddamn village for a chance at something real, then what the fuck are we doing here? We’re just taking up space. We’re just waiting for the hearse.
Life isn’t about finding miracles; it’s about creating them. It’s about reaching into the guts of your own quiet desperation and pulling out a goddamn miracle with your bare, bleeding hands.
And if you don’t go for it, if you don’t answer the call from that one, true part of yourself, it will go to voicemail. And the messages will get fewer and farther between, until one day, the phone just stops ringing altogether. And you’ll be left with a quiet, cold, and completely passionless rot in the center of your soul, and you won’t understand why.
I’ll tell you why.
It’s because, motherfucker, you got a calling.
You got a thing that you were meant to do in this life, and you’re not doing it. You’re sitting on your hands, making excuses, waiting for the perfect time that’s never going to come.
It’s like telling a beaver it can’t build a goddamn dam. What the hell is it then? It’s a genetic mistake, a walking corpse in a beaver suit. It’s like telling a bird it can’t fly. It’s a betrayal of the one, true, and holy thing it was put on this earth to do.
Every one of us, every last, sad, beautiful bastard, has a specific thing that calls to them. A thing they’re supposed to be doing. And the seeds for that thing were planted in your heart as a calling, as a dream, as a vision, as an idea of what you’re supposed to be.
And if you do not follow the design that your heart and soul was crafted to create, to do, to become, you will not feel like yourself. You will feel like a fraud, a goddamn actor in a play you hate, reading lines that taste like poison in your mouth.
And for me? If I do not become a world traveler, if I do not become the master of my own goddamn life, if I do not take the wheel of this sinking ship and point it towards a new, unknown, and probably dangerous shore, then I know that my soul will die. It will die feeling strange, feeling wrong, a quiet, pathetic whimper in the dark.
This isn’t a hobby. This isn’t a goddamn vacation. This is a matter of life and death.
The life of the man you could be, versus the slow, comfortable, and completely soul-crushing suicide of the man you are now.
