The death of a dream is probably the most painful thing a person can bear. More painful than looking around and realizing that you're standing in a room surrounded by people, but you are entirely alone. You could liken it to scraping a wound with a dirty cotton swab, but actually, it hurts worse than that. It feels like beating your fist against your chest to get relief from an acid bubble deep inside your gut. And all you can do is hope that you'll forget you even had the dream. All you can do is pray that something else will distract you, and the world will stop spinning in front of your eyes, and that stupid clock will stop ticking inside your head. I hate clocks. They remind me that time is moving and I am not.
The death of my dream has come swiftly. I spent years, years, years nurturing an infant seed and watering the possibilities associated with childish faith. I wished, I hoped, I prayed, I murmured. And though it was not in vain, perhaps it was simply not for me. Perhaps it was never a dream. Perhaps it was merely a thought with eyes which looked straight into me.
My dream was to write for the sky, to build cities with memories detailed by words. My dream was to live in castles, stone spelled out letter by letter, s-t-o-n-e, bound in leather and paper. My dream was to put words on the silver screen. Maybe even learn a thing or two in another classroom designed for dreamers just like me. But life is so technical now, and time is so short. If you weren't born and bred for royalty, you don't enter the King's court. You sit on the sidelines watching the rich ones stumble into their fate. You wish with all your heart that you could change your face, but you can't. You're a dreamer, and that is that. I'm a dreamer. Or else, nothing.
The death of my dream feels endless. Perhaps I dreamt too soon. But all in life is built of dreams, or else, nothing. Perhaps... Nothing.
x,
Syd
