You told me I could follow my dreams and become whatever I deemed to be my own and true to my being, yet here I am crying as I type this in the bathroom. I’m mourning my dead dreams and struggling to catch my breath, hoping the lady in the next cubicle won’t hear me. She sits across me in the office and I fucking hate everyday of it. I hate the numbers and the rat race, chasing whatever it is we are all looking for…wealth, success, whatever nonsense it is. Last night I tried to tell you how I felt and you could sense it coming so you covered my pleas with your obnoxiously loud laugh that taunts me in my darkest moments.
You told me I could be anything I wanted to be but how could I?
How could I follow my ‘filthy‘ dreams?