It’s your freshman year and your teachers will ask you what your plan is. You’ll reply, “well, I love to write”, and they’ll respond with a sigh and they will tell you “honey, that’s just not realistic”. You’ll feel like your heart is about to jump out of your chest and like your eyes are about to drown in saltwater.
That’s not the end either; everyone will tell you the same thing for the next four years. They will chuckle, and inform you that an English degree is meaningless. They will try to convince you that it doesn’t matter if you love it, because we don’t live for love anymore.
We live for faded green pieces of paper and the things those pieces of paper buy us. We live for the material possessions because they fill the void that our acid-laced jobs dig deeper everyday. We use the expensive televisions and smartphones to distract us from the fact that we’re not really living.
So darling, when they tell you that it’s not realistic, and when they tell you that you’re not seeing things clearly, turn away. Close your ears to their negativity and dare to thrive. Write. Paint. Sing. Make art.
Do all the things that they said you couldn’t do, and you’ll be filled with so much happiness, you won’t even care if you are living out of your car. Darling, you’ll be so goddamn happy that the details won’t even matter. I promise.