As Far As This Train Goes
You dreamed too big for yourself; you didn’t dare to dream smaller.
You imagined your hand being held across the street, a warm hand on your lower back to guide you through a dim restaurant. You made him grandiose, the love of your life, the biggest dream man too big to fit into any man’s shoes, and so you touch somebody else’s spouse or look at a man you’ve been obsessing over, a man who doesn’t know you exist. You dreamed too big. You didn’t dream yourself small enough to fit hip-to-hip in a kitchen on Sunday, drinking coffee and reading the paper and messy and imperfect. You didn’t dream small enough.
You painted friends against the backdrop of your life, over drinks on Friday and brunch on Saturday and you didn’t dream small enough to know that they’d have babies and disappear for six months, you didn’t dream small enough to realize that a lot of people will get drunk with you but not everyone will watch you cry, very very sober, in your living room when even the traffic has stilled outside. You will make friendships bigger than stories that begin with being wasted into the biggest version of yourself. You didn’t dream small enough.
You dreamed success in broad strokes, promotions and publications and your name in everybody’s favorites list. You did not see yourself hunched over the small failures, the small hours of pettiness and meekness and not speaking up for yourself and working at it, and working at it, and working at it, and watching yourself change — you might have suspected that this would be your biggest success, the cultivation of your deepest self — but you didn’t dream small enough.