My Dreams Are Ribbons, and I Sleep in the Breeze

I love words, love stringing them together and waving them around like ribbon, rolling in them like water and throwing them like rain, but sometimes I'm afraid I'll break them somehow. It's been my dream for a very long time to be a writer of books, fantasies, but I worry that I'll never be able to finish them. I never seem to be able to finish anything storywise.

Sometimes I look at the life I want to lead, and I see an exciting life full of adventures, things like bungee-jumping and sky-diving and mountain climbing. Other times I see myself sitting on the porch in one of those hammock-type swings, watching my little children play in the light of a golden afternoon. Then sometimes I see myself as a foster mom, teaching my foster kids how to make pots and write poetry and cook, showing them what a mom is supposed to be like (though how I'll know is really beyond me). How could I have such different dreams for myself? The only thing the same in any of them, the thread that runs through them all, is that I'm a writer.

I do wonder if I'll really ever be a good writer, or if I'll end up doing something else. I look at the few stories I've completed, and I'm not satisfied -- in fact, I worry sometimes that I'll be one of those people who can't write, but nevertheless decides it would be a lovely idea to publish a book, or a series of books. I hope not.

It's okay, though. Dreams to me are like water and air to other people -- they are my sustenance, and I thrive on them. But if they can only ever be dreams, at least they'll be my dreams, and that's enough for me.