“Quit psychology and become a writer”.

I chose my path for safety not for passion, because the abstraction of mediocrity was less scary then jumping off the ledge, aiming for the sea but landing on black rocks of hamartia.
I’m in the arms of someone who loves me, and I’m not sad, but I’m not happy either. I’m looking over their shoulder at something unimaginable.
From what? My dreams?
When I was little I was told to reach for the stars, so every night I watched them through my window and I always stretched out my hand.
Yesterday someone scoffed at the dreams encased in my stars and encouraged me to dream somewhere else politely. They said they were too far away, that my arms aren’t strong enough to make the trip.
So, I let go, but not completely, I still sneak a glance and for moments of singularity I engorge myself in delusions
I am terrified of reaching out again to have my hands broken and heart shattered, so in between silences in conversation, and stops on trains I pull out my Schrödinger’s box of dreams and watch the unrevealing exteriors with hope.
Because in there I am safe, outside the box I am among the stars and crushed clinging to the ground, but there is hope.
Beaten down and pushed into a shape I never wanted to choose, I live in the confines of regularity and hoping for something more but terrified of failure. But I want it, believe me I really do.

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