Follow your dreams, the keynote speaker shouts,his motivational PowerPoint blazingbehind him like discount enlightenment.But my dreams keep moving—no forwarding address, no GPS coordinates,just "last seen in 1997wearing ambition and a leather jacket."
I followed them through college debt,through unpaid internships that promised exposure(died of exposure, got better, tried again).Followed them to cities that ate my savings,to networking events where everyone's dreamwas selling you their dream of selling dreams.My GPS keeps saying "recalculating"in a tone that sounds like judgment.
Plot twist: dreams don't want followers—they want builders, architects, peoplewho understand that "follow" impliesthe dream knows where it's going.Mine sure didn't. Still doesn't.It's been asking me for directionssince 2003.
The real navigation looks like this:Turn left at financial reality.Merge with compromise.Take the detour through other people's emergencies.Road closed due to pandemic—find alternate route.Your destination is on the right,no wait, the left, actuallywe have no fucking clue,but you're definitely moving.
Some days I find fragments—the joy that flickers during the meetingwhen someone uses my idea.The paragraph that writes itself at 2 AM.The moment my daughter says"I want to be like you"and I realize the dream changed shapeswhile I wasn't looking.
Follow your dreams?My dreams and I have a different arrangement now:We check in occasionally,like old friends who live in different time zones.They've gotten realistic. I've gotten flexible.We meet somewhere in the middle—usually at the intersectionof "this pays the bills"and "this doesn't kill my soul."
GPS error: Dream not found.But the journey's logged,every wrong turn saved,every recalculation proofthat you kept driving.