Of Dead Dreams

It seemed so far away, her ambition and dreams. Like a silhouette in fog, appearing and disappearing through the mist. And that silhouette carried all her dreams. But it became fuzzier by the second. It seemed to float away backwards. Kind of what she imagined when they said the accession of Jesus.

And she tried desperately to cling onto it. But she was left with just its ghost in her hands. No, not even her hands. More like the ghost walked through her in an attempt to run away, leaving her with a chill.

And she starts losing the feeling in her knees and wobbled like jelly. She tries holding herself up in an attempt to comfort herself. She has nothing but herself now. She has nothing to look forward to. What is a man without his dreams? She prays that death finds her. That has been her prayer for a long time. but it never does. The prayer as well floats away like the dream did. Only this time, the mist and fog clear away with it, which is even worse.

Now she can see what others have been working on for years on end. She can see their flowers blossom, the smell of nectar and the sound of bees fill the air. And a pang of regret hits her. Maybe she should have been building a new dream after her first one floated away. Maybe she should have gathered her courage and kept her chin up. But then, is she not allowed to mourn after something she looked forward to for so long disappears? It was a part of her  after all, and she needed healing. Oh, the dangers of comparison.

She picks her tools and sculpture something new for her. Something that expresses the regret and shows her the way to a new path.