I've never seen a man die, but I've seen plenty of dreams die. From my point of view, I'm not sure which is worse. I pray I'll never have to find out. Dreams when they go, they're quiet. Even when they're slaughtered, it doesn't feel like rage and terror screaming inside of you. Nor does it quite feel like the unmistakable loss of something important. It isn't quite dread either. It's just all there, living, flourishing, giving inspiration in every breath of its imaginary life span, breeding creativity with the thought of it, and then all of the sudden gone, absent, ash in the wind. Its a gentle parting, but a solemn one. It's not the loss that gets me either, I could loose a million dreams, and do so every night, but to sit there and watch them slowly bleed out of inspiration and creativity, as they crumble into little more than a shell of a memory during a time to be reminisced some sad tuesday morning. They're just a little more than nothing when they go, and a little less than anything they once were. It's like if a great 3,000 year old towering tree falls in the woods when no one is around, and all that is left is a branch that used to be a root, and then one day you stumble apon a million branches just like it and it becomes so indiscernible in the grave yard of its friends that it is just a little more than nothing. That's what a little more than nothing means, few people collect branches and try to figure out where they're from, what tree, and how old. No, most people just step on them on the way to something else.
I don't have any dreams left, the normalcy of it all kills me. You'd think I'd be crying, or sad, or something along the lines of distraught. No, its just another thing passing. One more twig I won't think twice about after this long winded rant. In the moment, I am nostalgic for old dreams, not any in particular, because I genuinely do not know what dreams and goals I used to have, its just that I remember having them. I remember what it was like to be so driven, and determined, full of the fruits of a dream. Creative, and never bored.
I miss that feeling, on and off. When I have time to think about it, then I miss it, any other time its frivolous to do so.
Preoccupations get the best of me.
Oh well, dream on reader. While you can.