At thirteen,
I dreamed of joining a professional orchestra.

My peers advised otherwise.

I didn't let them discourage me,
but cracks began to form
in the foundation of my dream.

I held out and stood firm.
And yet one semester was enough
to change my mind, six years later.

The goalpost shifted,
and I swapped degrees from
performance to music education.

But it was for the wrong reason.
Music ed appeared less stressful,
but I did not want to be a teacher.

My dream had already started to crumble.

Addiction hastened the decay.

Eventually I came to realize,
I held onto nothing,

swirling around
like a piece of flotsam in a whirlpool,
aimlessly drifting.

In some ways, I still am,
five years later.

Existence feels shallow;
few things tether me.

My friends and family anchor me somewhat.

Existence is a strange burden.
A bizarre hybrid of joys and sorrows.
A fusion of
brilliant highlights and deep despairs.

The low points still surface in my mind.
Being robbed of my car while delivering pizza.
Watching my Grandma's mind wither away.
Echoes of family fights and arguments.

There is no dream anymore.

What future is there? I just exist.

Making music helps,
it absorbs my full attention,
leaving no room for the usual worries.

Being around people helps,
hearing their jokes and laughter,
listening to their stories,
praying for their struggles.

But alone with my thoughts, I falter.

My goal: just get through today,
to see my friends Sunday and Wednesday.



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