I can’t decide which of these is a harder topic to discuss. It has become apparent to me that, as we age, our hopes and dreams shift a little bit. Fears, on the other hand, tend to stay constant.
When I was in high school and college, my biggest dream was to become a famous author. I pictured myself drinking black coffee in an Adirondack chair on the porch of my New England summer house while cranking out my latest New York Times bestseller. I know. Totally cliche.
Now that I’m a little older, my dreams have become a little more general. I hope and dream of happiness. Of love. Of a life I’m proud of. That dream, my friends, has been accomplished.
Fears. Now there’s something people hate to disclose. In our fast-paced American lives, we’re supposed to be brave. Determined. Fearless. But everyone is afraid of something, right? I could go the surface route and tell you that I get fidgety around bugs I can’t identify, or that I faint in the presence of needles. But that’s not really what I’m asking, is it? I guess I’m a bit like my beloved Augustus Waters in that I fear oblivion. Not in a what-happens-to-us-after-we-die way, but in the I-just-want-to-make-a-difference-to-somebody way.
It’s funny, isn’t it? We make our own hopes and dreams, but our fears. Our fears make us.