Sometimes I realize I don’t actually want the thing — I want the feeling of wanting it. The anticipation, the imagining, the version of life where everything still sparkles. Once it becomes real, ordinary, mine… the excitement quietly fades.
I can spend so much time dreaming about it, picturing how perfect it would feel. But when I finally have it, it just becomes another part of everyday life. Maybe I wasn’t chasing the thing — I was chasing the hope attached to it.
Funny how desire feels electric, but ownership feels calm… almost too calm. The dream had butterflies. Reality has maintenance, routine, and silence.
Sometimes the imagination is richer than reality. In my head, I can imagine everything is magical, effortless, beautiful. In real life, it’s still nice — just no longer thrilling.
Something is intoxicating about longing. Once you have what you longed for, it stops being a dream and starts being something you have to water, clean, protect, and maintain.
Maybe I don’t lose interest — maybe the excitement belonged to the journey, not the destination. The wanting gave me energy, gave me hope.
Sometimes I think we are not meant to collect things, but moments of anticipation. The waiting, the planning, the dreaming — that’s where the magic lives.
I dreamed of a beautiful backyard garden… not the watering schedule, the fallen leaves, the insects, the pruning, the upkeep. Turns out the fantasy was effortless; reality grows with responsibility.
Well, lucky me, I bought an apartment with a nice garden that I can enjoy and one that I don’t have to maintain. That’s another story for another day.
