But a year ago, I caught myself in a strange moment. I was standing by the window, watching the rain, and suddenly realized: I couldn't remember what I dreamed about. Not what I *had* to do, or what was *right* to do—but what *I* actually wanted. I couldn't answer. Nothing at all. Just a void.

That scared me. More than my age, more than loneliness. I realized I was living on autopilot. Doing what I was supposed to do. But inside—silence. Not the kind of silence I’d found in meditation, but a different kind. A dead silence.

So, I started looking back. What did I love as a child? What did I dream of at twenty? What had I put off for "later"? It turned out that "later" had already arrived, yet I hadn't done a single thing from that list. I hadn't seen Rome. I hadn't learned to draw the way I wanted to. I hadn't written a single story, even though I’d ​​always dreamed of it. I hadn't ridden a motorcycle along a mountain road—something that used to be an obsession of mine.

Now, I’m slowly bringing them back. One by one. Not all at once—years teach you not to chase everything. But I signed up for drawing classes. An adult group, Wednesday evenings. My hand doesn't always obey, and my proportions go haywire, but I sit there with my pencil and feel alive. Next year, I want to go to Italy. Alone. Not on a tour, not with a companion—just me. Simply to sit in a small café and watch the world go by. And I’ve started writing, too. Not a book—just notes. Every morning, for about twenty minutes. About anything. About the past, about what I see out the window, about the people who inspire me.

I don’t need to get everything done. I just need to keep moving. A dream isn’t a destination; it’s a direction. And I think I’ve finally found it.

Do you remember what you used to dream about? Or have you turned everything into plans, too?

Alexandra