“We may place blame, give reasons, and even have excuses; but in the end, it is an act of cowardice to not follow your dreams.”
― Steve Maraboli

I remembered something today. It wasn’t a random memory, nor was it a moment of time that sits in the depth of mind. It was me. I remembered myself.

I remembered the child that I was. I remembered the love that I had for life, seeing the world through adventurous eyes of wonder. I remembered how free I felt when riding my bike up the hill, away from home. I recalled sitting in the grass, looking out over wide pasture and roaming horses. Then I remembered something else.

I remembered when I first realized that I was an artist. Or, more correctly put, I remembered when I knew that I was good at drawing. I remembered how naturally it came to me, how naturally the pencil felt pressed firmly against my index finger. Even today, a calloused indention sits prominently, constantly reminding me how I’ve always held the pen.

I remember my first drawing that I looked upon and realized I’d found a divine gift. It was a simple sketch of a horse. If I still had the drawing today I’m sure it would look foreign, bizarre and childlike to me. It wouldn’t be evidence that I’d be a great artist, or even a mediocre one later in life.. But I’m sure that anyone would be able to tell that it was a damn horse.

Standing in front of the mirror I remembered these things. I remembered me. Looking into my own eyes I revisited that time when I certainly knew what I was good at, when my dreams first formed.

Then I remembered something else.

I remembered when I forgot my dreams, when I decided to settle for a normal “stable” life. I remember all the voices that told me artists starve, that you can’t make a living off of a hobby and that most artists die poor and penniless. I remembered when a counselor once told me that I had to start thinking about my future, and I should choose something that I could succeed at, aside from my artistic endeavors.

I chose the path of survival. And since that time I’ve worked in various industries, hoping to find a niche, hoping to make a living. But at every job I’ve been near to miserable, feeling the life being sucked out of me, my creative spirit barely able to breathe through the cloud of smoke that I inhale.

I put away the canvas, I threw out the paints and the brushes. I didn’t touch a brush to a canvas, or a pencil to paper for the better part of a decade. It’s only been within the past few years have I embraced my dreams and passions once again.

Then I remembered the most important thing of all.

I’ve always been that child. The same child with eyes of adventure, with a passion for nature and travel, with a passion for life. I’m still that same child whose favorite thing was his telescope and his drafting table. I’m still that same child who looked through the lens for the first time at the passing of Halley’s comet. I’m still that same child who drew a wild mustang and said.. Wow.

I remembered getting better at art and finding a new passion for writing, getting my first desk and writing and illustrating a twenty page story just because my desk was new and that’s what you’re supposed to do at a desk. I remembered exploring new places beyond the creek which ran near my home then drawing and writing about them.

Today I remembered myself. I remembered my passion. I remembered my original sphere. I looked upon the footprints which brought me here to where I am today and realized, life is about living your dreams. It can’t be any other way.

We should all look at our own reflections, look deep into our own eyes and remember our truest loves, our most divine gifts, inspirations and passions. These simple things will forever guide us to our greatest moments, and into the beautiful life that we all deserve to live.

Remember yourself. Remember life.