Shattered by Broken Dreams

You know when you're a kid, you're supposed to dream big? "Reach for the stars," they would tell you. And being a trusting child, you would put in colors where the whites used to be, sprinkle glitter where ordinary lay, grew skyscrapers where picket fences stood their ground. Everything was glorious, everything was resplendent, everything could be beautiful; your dreams were as grandiose as your imagination could be.

And then you grew up. They tell you to stop dreaming, because it's not real. "This is reality," they said. It's not how you envisaged it. Things that were once exquisite, now rub against you rough. The places that were once a sanctuary, are overruled with bedlam. The things that once brought you exultation, now only brings forth melancholy. What happened to those dreams, the dreams that you tucked deep inside the pocket of your cheek, like the fortune in a Chinese cookie?

So what do you do then? Do you fight for what you want, even though there's that very real chance that you might fail? Do you pick up the pieces that they have managed to chip off from you, and just walk away with the burden of failure riding heavy on those weary shoulders? Or do you just pick the coward's way out, by picking the road often taken, picking the safe rather than the potentially rewarding?

I am standing in the middle of this crossroad, and the one road that I most want to take, the road that would take me Back, is not an option. What does that leave me with?

I can't believe that this is happening all over again. I shouldn't have let myself dream. Nothing hurts more than believing in your dream, and then having the whole thing burn down around you like a cabin in the Indian summer. I believed in my dream so much that I could almost taste it... It nearly became tangible, something corporeal. Something that I could say "I can live with this for the rest of my life, and be happy knowing that it was the best times I've ever had."

But see, the thing is: Dreams are not real. Dreams can be as lavish as you make them out to be, as wonderful, as sensational, as phenomenal as you want them to be, but in the end, that's all they are. Dreams. They will never become reality, not if you have someone pulling your strings. Controlling you like they are the puppet master, and you, the poorly-crafted marionette. So what can you do?

Dance, puppet, dance. Just dance.