Dreams

Have you ever wondered where a dream goes when it dies?

There must be a place, somewhere in the swirling mists of time where it lies, smothered by its own gathering dust, waiting, hoping for someone else to dream it, to give it life and breath once again. Have you ever tried to dream a dream that had died? It is much like visiting an old sepulcher, like wandering through the cemetery of the mind with piercing eyes looking to and fro and side to side hunting and searching for the lost grave marker. You finally find it through the stillness of the dark recesses of your mind - the unnamed stone marking the final resting site of the dream – tarnished and weathered a little more since the last time you visited, a little moldy from neglect and the damp night air, with the white roses planted beside it to cover the fetid stench of death now overgrown into a maze of un-pruned brambles.

The irony of all of this is that a cemetery is really not a place of death, but rather it is a place of memories, memories where life goes on though stilled in fading stone monuments. A cemetery is but a museum for the aching grief-stricken mind, embalmed in healing silence for the living to experience and the dead to rest in.

I gave up a dream I held on to for the past ten years and it was about time too, because even when things seem to be rosy and bright on the surface, they were slowly consuming me from the inside, eating me alive. My determination to keep this dream alive was not but a vainly disguised form of obstinacy, a tenacious and unwavering persistence for a wrong cause, a wrong principle, a wrong love.

My dream, may it forever rest in peace.