Let sleeping dreams lie

I was seventeen when I started bargaining with the years of my life. It started with a choice. Law in the Netherlands, or Classics in Rome. The latter was my dream. I kept a box in my bedroom. Cardboard, from Ikea, tucked under the cherry brown coffee table. I had spent a year filling it with things I would bring. Orange candles shaped like pumpkins, for my first October in Rome. A meal planner with a notepad to be used for grocery lists. It was orange, matching the candles. There was a magnet on the back. I would have stuck it to the fridge. There were books on learning Italian which I had picked up when the school library was clearing out things no longer in use. I did not know much Italian, but my Latin was good back then. I spent hours of my own time dissecting grammar rules and reading Latin poetry. I even had a copy of The Hobbit translated into Latin. This was in the box as well.

I scoured the housing market, daydreaming of the apartment I would get to call my own, with an old wooden doorframe and wide windows overlooking the bustling streets. It was the only thing I talked about. Given the chance, I would tell anyone who asked about the differences between the various translations of Homer's works. I incorporated my love for Classics into my high school assignments. I didn't need people to comment on how my eyes lit up when I talked about it. I could feel it. My heart was on fire, and I believed nothing could put it out.

Law was never an option. Not at first. But the application for Classics in Rome began in autumn, so applied to various other programs during the spring. I yearned for the validation of getting accepted into as many universities as possible. My first mistake was telling my mother I got accepted into law school. Hope flashed across her face and the battle for my future began.

For a month, she reassured me that I could pursue Classics after I had a law degree to fall back on. For a month I was defiant and undeterred. My family took her side. My friends took mine. The battle was decided before it was fought. A few days before the deadline to accept my law school offer, I finally caved. I could study law with certainty, and pursue classical hobbies on the side. Or I could risk getting rejected for the Classics program. Even if I was accepted, the chances of having a stable career with a Classics degree were slim. I made the cowardly choice.

I turned 18 soon after and moved to the Netherlands. I sold myself the story that I could learn to love the law, and I did. I enjoyed my courses and looked forward to the meaningful career I could have with a law degree. But the truth remained that I did not want it. I was robbed of the spare time to pursue my passions, and the dream of studying Classics became a fading reverie. I was painfully reminded of it in January after the first semester. I had the month off, with no plans and no lectures. Late one night, I was overcome with the need to see Rome. I booked the trip at 2am. The following morning I realized what I had done. Terror and excitement washed over me. The days passed quickly and before I knew it I was in Rome.

Rome was a beautiful contradiction. Ancient ruins and graffiti. Reckless drivers and designer clothes. My hostel, the cheapest one I could find, began with a grand wooden door and continued with tiled mosaic floors and echoing staircases. I checked in and dumbed my bag in the cupboard next to my bed. There were eight other beds in the dorm. I had never stayed in a hostel before, much less a dorm. The living situation which would otherwise find overwhelming was somehow magical. I walked back down the stone stairs, marvelling at the sheer personality each step sang under my feet. After I left the hostel I wandered the streets of Rome. I saw shops with sequined wedding dresses which normally would leave me unphased, but here, they made me dream of a grand wedding. There were colourful birds that I had never seen before, and cannot hope to name. They darted between branches, restless but content.

I found myself in a park. A stone fountain resided in its centre, spouting crystal blue water, and adorned with a statue. I cannot quite remember the shape the statue took. I continued through the park, climbing the hill that the path led me up. It was when I reached the hill's peak that I saw it. I had imagined countless times how it would feel when I first laid eyes on the Colosseum. My imagination did not do it justice. The stone architecture was defiant, indifferent to my gasp. Night had already fallen, but the structure stood golden against the dark sky. I believe I may have cried. I needed to get closer, I needed to see it at every angle, inspect every crack in the stone, and never let this moment in. Each step I took toward it felt like a trance until finally, it towered over me with ancient power that had stood for millennia. I circled it again and again, taking pictures and dodging other tourists while breathing it in. When I was there, nothing else mattered.

I visited the Colosseum every day until the day I flew back to the Netherlands. I got to taste a sample of the life I might have known had I made a different choice. It was beautiful and it was tragic. I put it out of my mind as the second semester started, but I could not escape the nagging feeling echoing in my bones. I did not want this.

The second semester neared its end. Slowly, the thought of completing the three-year degree turned into the realization that I would need a master's degree and internships in order to secure a career. Thinking I could pursue Classics after my law degree was a lie that was told in order to push me to enrol in law.

I have lost so much passion already. My writing falls flat. I know the words, I know I can use them, but every story is rushed. I fly past scenes I should be describing as if I am reading a court case: What is important is the verdict, the applied law, and the reasoning. The names of the parties are negligible. Some nights, I play with the idea of dropping out and enrolling in Classics. I could move to Rome and live my dream. Pragmatism always beats this thought down. I am not mourning the past year I spent in law school. I am mourning all the years to come, and the toil I will endure. I mourn the late hours I will work and the books I will never have time to read. I mourn the poetry I will forget and the dream I once had that is already turning to dust. I know it is not worth it. I know better than to trade passion for a career. But I am so terribly afraid that it is too late to turn back.