Dreams are fickle beings. They're most commonly found lounging around the very edge of ones' horizon. Near the place where distance blurs vision somewhat, and a cloudy quality always adds to the appeal of whatever it is that we see. They sit there, looking straight at us with capricious smiles on their faces, smugly confident of their own appeal. And of their ability to subtly change, morphing whatever it is we think we want now within the general radious of their circular souls.
Think about it, my friend, you merely 'sense' that your dreams are beautiful. They shamelessly seduce you - and you desperately long for them even as you struggle to achieve whatever it is they demand of you. Climb the next mountain, trek the long valley,all in the hopes that you may reach them and they may - finally - be yours. But as we all know, imagination adds substantively to experience. Perhaps dreams are really ugly delusions secretly laughing at our naive earnestness. Perhaps they are - as they claim to be - beautiful, but cruel. And capable, if we get close enough, to slip away capriciously leaving a shallow vestige of themselves behind. Even as they sit behind the next horizon and slyly beckon for us to move ahead. Fickle friends, our dreams. They love us not. But we still prefer their illusions to the bitter truth of reality. We prefer a futuristic veil over the dismal now. And today, I wonder why I obscure what 'is' based on a nebulous concept of 'what should be'. Why I allow myself to be misguided by fate's photoshopped vision of the ideal.
I challenge my dreams today to take a good look at me and understand that I am not going to struggle blindly towards you. I will stop and smell roses. And go shopping for shiny things. I will shamelessly spoil those who I love and I will spend hours doing whatever it joy. I will not just struggle through life trying to attain you, instead, I will live every moment I have been given even as I slowly, make my way towards my ultimate destiny.
I see you peeking out at me from the clouds ahead of me wondering why I'm not trudging towards you. You look into my eyes and you wonder why you don't tempt me as much as you once did. I look into yours and I see an unfamiliar doubt uncurl within you. For the first time in your existence you wonder whether you are - indeed - good enough. In that oculatory exchange something subtly alters the power dynamics between us. I understand - finally - that you need me as much as I once thought I needed you. I needed you to fulfill me, but you need me to actualize you. Without you I may not be complete, but without me you are nothing. And as I sit beneath a tree absorbing the restorative powers of beautiful sunlight I look at you in the shadows far, far away and I feel powerful. I look around me at the multitude who refuse to acknowledge each other as they look stubbornly ahead, completely, mindless seduced by the picture you show them, and I feel vindicated.
We're maintaining our wordless communication, you and I. I look at you and I impartially register that you are very, very beautiful. But so is this. And so am I. You challenge me to come to you, and I, I challenge you to step off your pedestal and make me. Come to me, prove to me that you are - indeed - what I want, what I need, what my destiny is. Don't tempt me with possibilities, show me bitter-sweet reality instead. Work for me, if I am to work for you. Because if you don't then your dreams of actualization will vanish in a cloud of nebulous smoke, and so will you, almost as if you never were.