Monologue of a disillusioned cynic

Growing up is the process of shedding, layer by layer, every dream you have ever had.

I wish I had said it but I'm only as original as B grade film directors are known to be.  

I watch re-runs of old shows, perhaps, obsessively. This nugget of wisdom is from Wonder Years. 

Despite the many episodes, of many television shows, that I have watched I seem to remember no episode with as much clarity as this one. I will be the first to admit that I have little in common with a child in sub-urban America from the 60s and yet, my disillusionment with my self seemed less solitary when this episode played. I remember feeling betrayed by the writers for displaying, on international television, my shame for all to see and yet feeling at one with the universe in realising (finally) that it wasn't only my burden to carry. 

I have wondered since how true that is. I remember wanting to be a singing-dancing-acting-sailing-smiling-guitar playing-hippy-doctor-lady-princess-war reporter-movie maker-teacher person. Layer by layer I lost every dream. To say it like that, makes it sound comfortable, like the thread-work of fate and perhaps the truth is that I was destined to make the choices I did. I have this uncomfortable itch in my shoe that makes it clear that, with every year, I learned to believe what everybody else told me I could do, more than I believed my own voice- the good one, that is. I let the world be my doctor and sat with my heart open for every pearl of joy to be extracted- for well-being. Always for that. 

I'm beginning to find myself again. After so many years I don't recognise that good voice as mine anymore.
I found that voice in an echoing chorus of so many.

I have the rare privileged of meeting children who share nothing in common with me. These children, for whom to recognise the alphabet is a blessing, have taught me to believe again. The funny thing is, they have taught me that the dreams I regret not breathing life into were intelligent choices. Choices, that in desperation, I allowed myself to believe, other people were making for me but in truth (I'm beginning to remember again) I fought to make. I may not play the guitar but I make my own music. I may not be a doctor but I save lives. I  may not be smile but I know happiness. All of this I simply do by being alive.

It is a not so rare gift- life; One that I don't often find reason to rejoice in.
I'm beginning to realise that growing up could well be stripping away every dream I have ever had to discover reality, often more wondrous than the dream. There is a pain in reality that is rewarding in its sweetness.
Yes, it could well be true that I'm a disillusioned cynic now but I like that better than being a deluded dreamer, despite the ring in the latter. Of course,I don't expect my contentment to last over a few hours. It is the effect of a drug I haven't found. 

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The song that is playing is Joe Cocker's version of 'With a little help from my friends' (but of course!)