The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams is the lack of time. The busiest people I have known in my life always have time enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are always tired and pay no attention to the little amount of work they are required to do. They complain constantly that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid to fight the Good Fight.
The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties. Because we don’t want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life. We look beyond the walls of our day-to-day existence, and we hear the sound of lances breaking, we smell the dust and the sweat, and we see the great defeats and the fire in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight, the immense delight in the hearts of those who are engaged in the battle. For them, neither victory nor defeat is important; what’s important is only that they are fighting the Good Fight.
And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace. Life becomes a Sunday afternoon; we ask for nothing grand, and we cease to demand anything more than we are willing to give. In that state, we think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fantasies of our youth, and we seek personal and professional achievement. We are surprised when people our age say that they still want this or that out of life. But really, deep in our hearts, we know that what has happened is that we have renounced the battle for our dreams – we have refused to fight the Good Fight.
When we renounce our dreams and find peace, we go through a short period of tranquility. But the dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being.
We become cruel to those around us, and then we begin to direct this cruelty against ourselves. That’s when illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in combat – disappointment and defeat – come upon us because of our cowardice.
And one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death. It’s death that frees us from our certainties, from our work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons.
I’d like to love and lose and love again, and lose and love and lose again, because what else is there to do.
I’d like to get up once a week with no other agenda than laziness in bed, just touching feet and feet, and eating breakfast for dinner, off a blanket. And stay alive like that in bed. 24 hours.
I’d like to sit with old people and understand why they’re not in a hurry, rest for a few minutes at the shade of their deep and heavy, bulldog wrinkles; and listen to the stories they tell from when the world didn’t use to end.
I’d like to be more than a word, a sentence or a paragraph. I’d like to be an entire chapter, or better yet, a novel. Be written in detail. Survive the darkness. Rephrase the light.
Looking back, I am thankful for where I am today, for the opportunities and circumstances that have happened. They all led me to here. Yes, there are times where I do have my share of regrets, of what ifs. But I always take comfort in the fact that I. Am. Here. For. A. Reason.
I got a glimpse of the possibilities ahead, and I am excited as to what’s in store for me next. I only have my faith to get me through the next step. Though my fear of the unknown is, well, frightful, I can only push forward because this is the only way to make my heart sing. As the sole sisters have mentioned, “I am not afraid that something might happened to me. I am more afraid that NOTHING will happen to me.”.
There are people in my life who have continuously asked me of my plans, who I know have doubted me. There are those who spoke highly of material desires, of stability and mediocrity. That I can do nothing about. I can only hold my breath and close my eyes. But for those who have continuously supported me even without understanding; respected my decisions without questioning my intentions, I am eternally grateful. Rest assured that my heart, no matter how tired it may become sometimes, will never be beaten.
What will make your heart sing?