Dreams Get Dusty

We all have it. What's yours?

That thing we're striving for. In our best moment, in our peak states, it shines bright in our mind's eye. Launch the website. Publish the project. Start that side business. In those moments of lucid clarity, we know exactly what we want, and why we want it. Our best selves construct a vision that stirs the soul.

And then, weeks later, after another late night, another wasted hour, the thought of that shimmering future self has become a blur of its original self. What exactly do we want, again? Why do we want it? And why aren't we doing it?

This weekend, I realized my apartment can help answer these questions.

In January, I moved into a slick new apartment. It's my first time living alone, which means no roommates to deal with, but also, no roommates to help tidy up. Cleanliness rests squarely on me.

Before long it already started. Dust began piling up under the couch and in the corners of my room. The off-white kitchen floor grew more off, and less white. Sand trekked in from the beach gave the floors a bit too much texture. My apartment was dusty. After a month, something needed to be done.

So I bought a Swiffer. And I cleaned my apartment. Problem solved.

Here's what I didn't do: I didn't feel crushing guilt when thinking about my dirty apartment. I didn't feel searing pain in my chest when looking at dust piling up in the corners. Why not? Because everyone knows it's normal. Apartments get dusty. It's part of life. We notice the grime, clean them dispassionately, and move on with our lives.

Not so with our goals.

In my best moments, I have big dreams. Projects I want to publish. Skills I want to learn. Principles I want my life to stand for. In moments of peak state, my vision for my future self is damn inspiring.

But all things in this life tend toward disorder. Our goals are no exception. But just like my apartment, my dreams gets dusty. Only in this case, the dust is made of iron. It weighs on me like an anchor, pulling me deep into mental loops of worry and guilt. I've got the mental scars to prove it.

Here's what I'm trying now: when I stumble on a goal, when I miss a habit, when I fail to publish, I'll recognize that these mistakes aren't heavy anchors dragging down my character. These mistakes are as natural as dust in my apartment. Not only harmless, but expected. No big deal. Just means it's time to use the Swiffer of solitude to wipe away the dark thoughts, clear up my goals, and move forward with clarity and confidence.