Dreams

When I was eight years old, I began to make claims about my future.

I was planning my adult life.

I made all kinds of assertions.  I had dreams.

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Then I began to get ill.  It got worse.

At fifteen, I crashed.  I was out of school, had Depression.

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Along the way, I have become suspicious of ambition.

I met Psychiatrists, and I understood that they knew little, and would not admit to that.

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No-one would listen to my views as I was ‘mentally ill’.

The Emperor had no clothes.

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I met people in Hospital who had been abused, had hearts of gold, and real courage.

It did not matter to me that they had left school.

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I would gaze at them with quiet eyes as they told me how they ‘did not know things’.

Again, I was forced to think about Education in a new way.

Was it only a collection of repeated facts?

Would I ever equal the courage of these people?

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When I did read books, the second book would challenge the first.

Socialists seemed to blindly follow Marx.  I later discovered Marx had lacked confidence, and had doubts about his own beliefs.  (It was a Biography, will look for the title.  That is why he took so long to write his book.)

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I had to take a step back from ambition.

I needed to become a good person, someone who could be useful to those I loved, and who could survive adversity, as those brave souls I had met in Hospital.

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Sometimes ambition does wash over me.

I make Alexander the Great look relaxed.

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At these times,  I wish illness had not taken away my opportunities.

I wish I had explored my talents, and I can feel sad.

I suppose it is an area of conflict in my life, an inner tug of war.

Mint

 

 

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