Fern is near hysterics at the beginning of Charlotte's Web. She's sobbing, yelling, basically doing anything she can to save Wilbur from the ax. And, because Mr. Arable is moved by his daughter's emotional pleas (White writes that "[h]e seemed almost ready to cry himself"), Fern wins the responsibility of raising the little pig.
Last night, my wife and I went to see the film adaptation of The Fault in Our Stars. It was the first date we had been on in a long time. The movie was really well done, and the popcorn was fantastic. The only thing that was slightly annoying was the theater crammed with crying teenage girls. Not just sniffling teenage girls. I'm talking full-on sobbing. Chest-heaving, snotty-nose sobbing. I barely heard the last half hour of the movie. Then, when it was over, the girls congregated in the lobby, hugging each other, weeping as though they were all at a middle school dance.
That was my evening. Movie. Popcorn. Hormonal crying. Oh, and the sobbing girls. Welcome to my life.
I've been thinking a lot about dreams recently. Dreams are based on hopes, and hopes foster expectations. In the past year or so, I've allowed myself to have expectations, and it hasn't worked out well for me. I wish I could go through my life without expectations or hopes or dreams. I wish I could just be satisfied with my life. Unfortunately, I can't. To be completely satisfied with my life, I would need to have no worries, and I'm a worrier.
I worry, so therefore I have expectations. I have expectations, so therefore I have hopes. I have hopes, so therefore I have dreams.
So, Saint Marty will continue to dream the impossible dream.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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