Overrated Expectations

I stood in the rain looking out over the river. I saw boats, people,
dogs, water, people and more boats. The rain lashed at my body,
flimsily coated in jeans and a jumper. The view was invigorating but it
made me think. It made me think about my life and where it was
going.
Where is my life going? If the truth is told, I don't know. I used to
know; I used to have a meticulously detailed plan mapped out. But that
was before. Now, I am lost, isolated, lonely and scared. I don't know
where to turn, how can I explain this? It isn't an identity crisis, it
isn't a lack of self-esteem it is just&;#8230;well, I'm lost.
Decisions, decisions, decisions: head or heart? My head says "onwards
and upwards"; it wants acclaim, prestige, money, recognition and even
more money. My head will take me to the top. Operas, theatres, 'lets do
lunch', large houses, pensions, private education for the offspring,
big cars, respect, money, money, money. Now, I know money can't buy
everything, but it can help quite a lot that's for sure! I can jump my
social class: from middle working right to the top, what a thought! I
can provide a life far better than my own (although mine isn't
altogether horrid). I can prove them all wrong; a kick in the teeth for
the secondary school bullies and the patronising teachers: "now just
make friends". It is all within my grasp. But they won't be around to
see it, will they?
What do I loose for being at the top? My quiet life, my commonness, my
ability to talk to dustbin men? No, these will always be mine. I will
loose my compassion, my empathy, my fondness for pizza, the fibres that
make me my own person. I will loose the worth of money, my appreciation
for 'treats' and fun things. I will become greedy, self-obsessed and
even ignorant perhaps. I will loose who I am now; I don't want to do
that. I may be poor, common and a little undereducated but that it what
makes me.
What other choice do I have? Ah yes, my heart: a dreamer,
unpredictable, caged and aching. Weeping, as I have never known a human
to weep, drowning in her sobs and almost completely ignored. She has
got me into trouble before, but that does not cease her mourning. She
wants to be free to create her brainchildren. She wants to write, to
feel the pulse of prose and poetry. I want her to write yet I cannot
justify it. Where is poetry going to get me? It won't bring a steady
income, won't elevate me to a higher class, and won't bring me acclaim.
It won't bring anything. Except happiness, unbridled happiness like
nothing before could bring. I long more than anything to be locked a
room with my thoughts and write until the pen collapses. Yet my head
oppresses my heart. It won't let me fly with the birds; it won't let me
watch clouds float by on the idle wind. It is so driven that it wants
to drive; my heart just wants to be carried.
So which was am I going to go? I have no idea, I cannot escape either
but I feel my heart is beginning to tire of this argument. I feel her
fading, dying within my chest. She can no longer shout as loud as my
pounding head: she only aches. Aches silently in her hollow resting
place; she is losing.
I look out over the river and see boats milling around, huddled in a
corner having afternoon tea. What do you think I should do? Follow my
heart for eternal happiness or follow society for riches and
popularity? Head or heart?
A lonely tear wanders down my cheek as I watch the boats abandon me. I
feel my dreams being torn from my hands and there is nothing I can do
to stop it. My widowed heart aches. Ache dear heart, ache for all time
for your life-blood has been stolen by overrated expectations.