My head gets awfully cluttered with ideas.
I have a little egg of a dream. A little plan I’m putting in a pocket in my brain for safekeeping.
It’s all very well to build fine palaces in my mind, furnishing them with hopes and desires, to thread fancies and ambitions like gossamer webs above my head; they feed the fervor of work, and keep me striving. But I must know that the road to them, to those castles and clouds of fancy, are paved with rocks of toil and thorns of industry: I have to work for my goals.
It’s hard mead to swallow, knowing that success comes only with great effort. True happiness must be gotten by labor, or there is no satisfaction. What good would it do to have something I desire dumped in my lap? No sweet memories of the strain of my own hands to achieve it. No cherishing what I had easily gotten. So is the way of life.
It makes me at once melancholy and wholly joyful to know I have to work, and can work, and strive and seek and never yield, until I get what I want. To know that success is for those who make it.
I will work. I will strain myself and do my best, give my best effort and be productive and effective. Learn all I can, whenever I can, and put it to use. God did not give me a brain and hands for nothing. I will use them.
And perhaps then, perhaps only then, will my little dream egg hatch. It seems so far off, but I read of people who obtain their desires, and it inspires me to keep on. I mock my own wishes sometimes, thinking them silly or unrealistic. But dreams are necessary. Without them we would live a stolid and unappealingly rational life.