Dolly, Dolly, Dolly. This old, and still without a purpose in life? I should have known this is where you’d be when I read that dreadful statement of purpose. The first draft involved a confession about not knowing what a prostate was, I believe? The rest was an attempt to prove that being purposeless is superior to having purpose. It is a wonder that you have gotten anywhere in this lifetime.
But there will come a day when you can’t skim along on your girlish charms. Then you’ll have to actually work for something. You’ll have to find something you care about, something you believe in. You may actually have to think. You may have to be serious about something for once in your life. What will you be then? You are a fool. You’re just a peasant girl who gazes longingly up the hill at the castle you’ll never live in. Instead of finding a way to make your idle daydreams come true, you fall into a stupor of dreaming, endlessly dreaming.
What am I to do with you? I’ll tell you again, then. For the hundred-thousand-and-seventeenth time, you’re not a princess, a duchess, a lady, an heiress or anything really. Don’t dream bigger. Grow up. Find a fulfilling, realizable goal and take small steps towards it. Hold yourself accountable. Measure your progress and allow yourself prizes along the way. Stick to it and one day, you may be a halfway decent … ah… whatever it is that you are. Then you can be just like everyone who isn’t special at all. Or, if so, only in the same way that everyone else is special. Just like everyone, you’ll work for most of your life, marry, have a kid or two, and slowly grow numb. You’ll be tired, but you’ll finally be real. REAL.
Because, Dolly. You can’t live your life satisfying your own wishes with your imagination. You just. You can’t. The older you get, the sadder it is to watch. Strive for success by everyone else’s definition. Then at least… you’ll have… what everyone else seems to value. Right, and that’s good because… Oh, hmm. Ah.
No, I suppose having what others want will just make them bitter, won’t it? I guess you’ve gone all through your life doing that for amusement, haven’t you? And if it won’t make you happy either…
Oh, all right. Fine. Surrender your whole life to whimsy. Stare, stare out into the ocean, imagining. Follow your flawed heart wherever it thrills to go. I will be with you, always.
Exasperated, adoring, delighted, yours,
(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)