The American Dream is dead. Thank God.
As I get ready to leave this large, fascinating continent for European shores, I am constantly evaluating my decision to abandon my history, my home, the place that has spawned thousands of twenty-somethings like me. Here I am, voluntarily picking up my bags and departing a country when many people risk their lives to be transported here, all for an idea. The American Dream.
I believe America is an idea- a mesmerizing oasis sprung from the deepest hallucinations of stranded desert travelers, dying of thirst. Americans live in a world of privilege without the stain of defeat. America is a hedonist’s wet dream, in which the players run round in circles with demoniac glee—artificial, synthetic, chock full of vitamins to make you grow and preservatives that will immortalize you. What every American secretly craves is a taxidermist on speed dial.
This endless race for perfection has exhausted every last drop of creativity that once flowed like wine through this country. Americans want luxury, beauty, grandeur, ease. We build colossal homes and fill them with food, children, art—and still we are chronically dissatisfied, forever searching for that nameless thing that will bring contentment and happiness into our lives.
Unbeknownst to us, America has created a static movement, incapable of change. We cling to ideas, cling to hope, cling to anything that we feel might stem this tidal wave of disappointment. That is our greatest weakness. If America were to loosen her grip, even just the slightest bit, we might know what it means to feel free again.
