When I was little some lovely old ladies in elevators would ask me “Hey, what do you wanna be when you grow up, darling?”, while smiling big smiles. I would never hesitate before answering. I knew exactly what I wanted to be. I knew exactly why every afternoon I ran outside, looking down from my balcony to see him for the precious few minutes he’d be there. 

I wanted to be a garbage man. To stand in the back of the car, holding the little metallic bar as it moves onto the next street. Or even to swipe the dusty streets very early in the morning, muttering about the beer cans, being there to clean up the frantic orgasm of a youth which was now probably whining about some terrible headache. Not to live their wild life, not to watch it, but to wipe its remainings. Because remainings don’t belong in the moment and whatever doesn't belong in the moment is not nostalgic enough to be kept. 

The old ladies in elevators, of course, laughed it off. 

At age seven my dream was crushed. It was unrealistic. I sure had greater capabilities. I looked around my room and noticed the other thing which had always been there; books. 

Books, stories, fairy-tales, mysteries, classics, tragedies, comedies- you name it. Therefore, it was short of inevitable that I become a garbage-man of life. Or as best defined by society; a writer. 

The old ladies in the elevators -who are probably destined to be my eternal judges- smiled politely when I gave the new answer. They thought it was amazing, how talented I should be to have rare dreams, to even want this as a profession at such a young age. They congratulated my parents on their good work. Truly, it was impressive. 

“How cute” they would exclaim, it seemed nice to them. An idea struck me, then. What if I looked up weird professions and convince them they were my dream job?

Which, of course, I did. 

Answers were ranging from “bee keeping”, “flavorist”, “fragrance chemist” to “nail polish namer” and -personal favourite- “veterinary acupuncturist”. They mostly seemed surprised, as if I had offended them, but always laughed with their heart-warming laugh. 

Of course the standard “writer” answer is back at it again now, age 14-and-a-little-bit-more-than-a-half. I write a lot in my small room without AC. The walls are covered in quotes about the world and bookcases filled with books. Plato, Homer, Dostoyevski, Kafka, Wilde, Camus, Austen, Dickinson, Baudelaire, Shakespeare… all my dear friends. I devour their words under the school-desk which I have also filled with quotes in my crappy -and impossible to read- handwriting. I sit in the back of the class, I write stuff and read stuff and sometimes solve the difficult geometry exercises. The school system underestimates me and I hate it. 

Too much homework, too many assignments, too little spare time. I wake up in the night and think about it- writing, the… “light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul”. 

That’s what I call it, that’s how I think of it.

Sometimes I grab my laptop and write non-stop. I number my work. 123, 124, 125, until the end of time- okay that was too much. At least until the end of my annoyingly limited computer space.

I could go to college in England to study literature, I could publish, work harder, I could raise the money… but could I? For real? I ask my advisors, who don’t know anything about waking up in the middle of the night to recite Hamlet and make sure you remember the end of Virginia Woolf’s “The Waves”. 

Far from surprisingly, the old ladies in elevators shake their heads sadly. “It’s not really a job, sweetie” they say as I smile politely after pressing the number for the second floor where my English lesson will take place. 

They tell me that I could be a doctor, or a lawyer. “In such dark times one must not think of a hobby as a job”, they say. I nod. They will never understand the power of their own words, will they? They underestimate it, the beauty of finely crafted sentences, of poems that can set the world on fire. 

I ask them what button should I press for them. The say I’m very polite. I can see how they look at me, disappointed. “What a childish dream you are pursuing!” They whisper, thinking about my dark future and possible lack of money. 

Yes, I agree. I might not make much money. But at least on my death bed I will know that I have lived. 

Recently we moved houses to come to this marvellous little room without AC. “How about your books, little girl?” The courier man asked in a serious tone. 

“3” I said, daydreaming as always. 

“Oh, since it’s only three boxes-’’ I interrupted him, realising my mistake.

“No, no, I’m afraid I wasn’t very specific. Three bookcases”. 

He laughed. I thought about the old ladies in elevators. 

My new home has no elevator and no old ladies, and yet, as much as I hate to admit, these sweet dream-crushing human beings -when not in elevators- apparently exist in much larger groups which they call societies. And they are the greatest judges of all. 

Here I am, of course. Typing these dreadful words. Not giving one fu-