I think the world has killed the poet in me. Or rather, the world has killed the poetry in me. As I grow older, I find myself becoming more practical, sensible, and logic-driven than I was as a child. As a child, I had my head up in the clouds, I loved poetry, I had impractical goals and desires, and I had a longing for something romantic. A romantic life – as a writer, as someone free from the rules of society, as someone who chose not to worry too much about the practical things (rent, work, groceries). I look back, and I think, “wow, that was impractical of me.” But maybe all of that was passion, and I’ve lost it through the years. Maybe I could’ve had everything I longed for and more – the romantic life, the carefree life, the happiness that was not driven by capitalism.
Maybe I still can. But do I still want to? I no longer find solace in literature and poetry like I used to – at least not the same kind of literature and poetry as I did before. I no longer have the overwhelming desire to write a bestselling novel (as I write this, I realise, maybe I do. Hm. Maybe I just don’t have the motivation to actually sit down and do it).
I wish for some of the things I wanted as a child. I wish for stability, wisdom, and joy. I wish for a romantic life still, just a different one. Now, I wish for a life wherein I’m allowed to exercise my creative freedom (albeit in academic settings); I wish for a life wherein I’m centered and self-reliant. I wish for a life where I don’t have to depend on others to make certain choices for me – I’m autonomous. The master of my own fate.
The childlike part of me still wishes for an idealistic life. She still wants everything she did before. But I no longer wish for these things in the idealistic way I did before. Still, what does that imply? Did I simply grow up, or have I lost my passion?
Memoirs of a Muse 