Death of a dreamer

Growing up is a tragedy.

I look at our backyard now and wonder how I was ever able to spend two hours outside with nothing but a shovel. Somehow, I was perfectly happy to repeatedly dig holes and fill them back in, unearthing stones and what I presume were maggots. It all sounds quite futile and mundane, but from what I remember, it was incredibly good fun.

Then there was the fact that my sister and I had our piano lessons consecutively after each other, leaving me with an hour every week to goof around at our teacher's house. It was always a productive hour; I'd set myself to the task of collecting branches from the giant oak tree, or maybe chopping off a usable bamboo pole to fend off a possible monkey invasion. I even took the time to build a miniature aqueduct from a faucet in the yard to the grass several yards away, like a chute for little rocks to tumble down.

Understandably, your first instinct would probably be to say that I lost interest in nature as I grew up because of technology. With all those fancy toys around me, playing outside would naturally start to seem dull.

Yet even with computers and televisions, I was still able to find entertainment in ways that we would find strange. Nowadays, I lose all interest in a game once I finish it. But I clearly remember how I would replay the exact same dungeon over and over in Zelda, to the point that my mother once asked me if I was even doing anything productive. I would never bother to actually move forward in the plot line of Lego Island, instead electing to build cars and drive around delivering pizzas. And I was able to watch the same episode of The Magic School Bus repeatedly without ever really understanding what was going on, other than the fact that Arnold was a wuss (the most important lesson of them all, undoubtedly).

But I think childhood was more than about having fun. In the larger sense of the word, childhood was about dreaming.

For one, I literally had more dreams (at least, I remembered more of them). My dreams were, on occasion, batshit insane. I still remember a few of them, one of them involving my tennis coach spontaneously catching on fire from yelling at us so much. Another involved a highly complex and intense obstacle course with my friends and family as the contestants -- death awaited all who failed. I also vaguely remember having to face a horde of moblins armed with a guitar and a lightbulb (how I got myself out of that one, I don't remember. I probably just died then woke up or something). Then of course there were the typical naked dreams and flying dreams.

But I also dreamed about my life more. I was a little man with big plans. For instance, I told my mom I was going to become the CEO of the world's biggest company and do whatever it is that rich people do for fun. I also said I was planning on making it to Wimbledon some day, though even I knew at the time that it was essentially impossible for me to actually win.

Fast forward to when I'm 13, sitting in the car on the way tennis practice. I certainly had trashed any notion of making it to Wimbledon by now. My mother is talking to me about the importance of high school or something, and she brings up the topic of having to figure out what it is I want to do when I grow up.

I said I wanted to be an orthodontist.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it doesn't look very hard for how much money they make, and it seems pretty safe."

The dreamer had died long ago.

He might come back someday, true. Maybe I'll get some flash of idealistic risk-mongering and pursue something that doesn't involve security and stability for once. But more likely than not, I won't. I'll be satisfied with doing what's safe and practical for the rest of my life, because I'm far too aware of the fact that dreaming doesn't get you food on the table.

Satisfied. What a tragic word.

What an ugly word.

"I just want to be happy, Dad."
"Don't talk to me about happiness. You don't know what being happy means."
"I don't. But I know enough to tell that you aren't."