You may start letting go.

Your dreams, dear boy, do not live across the pond. They don't belong elsewhere, over the Pacific, and so don't you. They belong in the inner cities of your mind estate – not your state of mind. Wherever you find yourself, there is both their residence and direction.

Dreams, you see, they transit, fizzle out, reassemble anew. They're not a solid plaque to weigh heavy on you. Dreaming is for the fickle.

Dear child, you don't belong there – I know, nor here either. Yet, here is where you are. Perchance belonging has been a dream all along, one meant to fade out into the mist of a disturbed slumber. Perhaps three plus four equals awaken! Here is now.

Sam Smith - Young