So little

Who knows why I even bother with this anymore. Like, why do I sit here now and write who knows why I even bother with this anymore. It doesn't make a lot of sense. I just live my life, day to day, occasionally think of the dreams I've had, and quickly let them be washed away by television, work, school, and marriage. Did I really want to write the great American novel at some point? Did I really have rock star aspirations? Did I really consider joining the Peace Corps? I harbored dreams of amateur boxing, too. What happened to all of these things?

I'm happy, though. I have a loving wife and great friends that I'm frankly blessed to have. I have my family, and my home. I have the important things. Those dreams I have, they flitter away for a reason. They are not what is truly important to me. I'd rather have this life and think wistfully of those other things, then have things the other way around. I'm filled by these relationships, these loves.

This is a small bastion for those dreams, maybe. Maybe that's why I still bother.