I had lots of plans. I was going to be a writer and an astronomer. That was all I loved, you know. Writing and astronomy. I wanted to go to a great school where I could study and learn and defy all of the shit life had thrown my way. I'd always known I was going to do something great, because I knew I could. I was too full of passion not to.
But I didn't.
I foresaw that my life would take one of two paths -- a life full of accomplishment for the world, or a useless life where my dreams became old memories as I slugged through one day after the next.
I never overcame my obstacles. I never did anything worthwhile. I had a few good times, and a few good laughs. A few good drinks and some traveling here and there. But nothing like I wanted. I've grown old and tired. Scattered family, kids grown and living their own adult lives now. I never did fall in love again. Sometimes there are no second chances when you've been seared too deep.
I still look at the stars, but now they seem like bitterness and lost hope. They used to be the only light I saw, and I clung to them. Now they're just annoying.
I used to be full of energy, too, but it's hard getting around now. I'm not motivated to do much. I still rearrange my furniture often like I used to, and for the same reason: it gives me a touch of control and spices up my life for a grand two days. Then I get bored, but leave it for a few months, then rearrange again. What else is there to do...
I had so many plans. So many heroes. So many dreams. It was naive and foolish to think I could realize any of them. But then that's what they called me -- naive and foolish.