fuck, this hits hard.
When was the last time you had this conversation with yourself? Probably never, if you took the time to open this email. Newsletter. Column. Letter. Glorified diary entry dripping with too much to say and too much to think and not enough desire for harmful habits to make it half as good as anything Kerouac wrote. (Don’t really mean that, but you kind of get what I mean, yeah?) Whatever you want to call it, I guess. Doesn’t really matter. Now. Look. I’ll say it straight, because you deserve that, and you’re still rocking your way down this message, faster than I can mentally picture the entire portrait as it unfolds—your delusions are not fucking grandeur enough. You don’t dream big enough because you’ve never believed you were allowed to dream big. Or, to dream at all. Or, worse, you’ve had enough imagination to have grand dreams—for the dreamer is born, not made—and you’ve had visions, and you’ve had half-ideas borne from the blood and the soul and the trickling nightmare-delight hybrids you have never had explanations for, but somehow knew deep in your gut that they were real—and these, after all that… you ignored. You ignored those warnings and pursued the pain of others’ judgments. You ignored the good and chose the vile. You allowed the perspectives and opinions of Enemies and Allies alike poison your vision. The tears you’ve cried have been more for others and less for yourself. (Well, consciously, but we both know that those tears leaked from the eyes of the child within you who never had the audacity to challenge the system, say no to those who blocked them, and channeled their rage into horrendously addictive energy that made them stay up until midnight vomiting in the fucking toilet). this might hit too close to home. but you need to hear it. because I did, and if I could go back in time and shake myself by the shoulders, I would. I would, and I would scream into the face of the Girl I Was when I was old enough to understand where my heart wanted to go, but too afraid to pave the trail I wanted to pave. And I would wipe away her tears, and tell her to buck the fuck up and believe in herself and all that corny garble you don’t want to admit actually makes sense in the Hollywood makes-our-hearts-burst-into-flame way. Please understand that I’m telling you this because no one else had the gall. Please understand these are not warnings, but words of encouragement. Certified green lights to signal the traffic of your future. Your past. If I could go back in time, I would, but I can’t. Maybe you want to go back in time, as well, but you know you can’t. You can’t, and that’s okay, because the future still lacks tread. I’m giving you permission as a total fucking stranger because someone has to, because the only reason you’re still reading this is because you needed permission from someone who wouldn’t bullshit you. So I’m telling you right now that you can. You can fucking dream big. You can be so delusional it makes your chest tight and the air leave your lungs. You can be so unbelievably obsessed with your ideas and your dreams and your stories and your vision and your fucking everything that you can abandon the Dreams of Everyone Else behind and finally Achieve What You Want to Achieve.
You can. You will. You have to.
Good morning, good night, and good luck.
—Taylor Barnes.