Through Your Kaleidoscope, It's Beautiful
©Rachel C Johnson
When you’re a child it’s so easy. So easy to believe in fairy tales and God, so easy to imagine big futures and create impossible goals, so easy because you’re told anything is possible, that you are capable of doing whatever you set your heart to. What no one tells you is that when you grow older, your heart becomes practical, and those fantasies seem so childish, and you want more realistic goals for yourself. Of course, true to human nature, we never stop dreaming, the child lives on secretly, maybe more practically, but continues to dream. When one dream dies, new ones kick in, and the cycle never stops. You keep dreaming, your imagination keeps the child alive, if only to continue the fantasy you base your adult life after. It’s not always a fantasy that comes true, but it is always there, gnawing at your insides, growing from the food of your soul, dying to be alive, dying to exist outside of your body. The fantasy becomes your inner self, it becomes who you are alone, in the car, in the dark. And your exterior and interior combat for your attention. You dream in the meantime, between living your life. You feed the beautiful monster your childlike spirit has created, you nurture it for all of your life. When you retire, you imagine you may have the chance to bring it to the world, the real world with the real people, and let it live for once as it was meant to. None of us know, however, that there is a binding source, something keeping the dream inside while we wilt away in the real world dying to let it out. We work all of our lives to finally birth the fantasy that has been brewing inside, only to find that our hard work, what we believed made life worth living, was the only thing holding us back from death. The moment we stop working, trying to give life to something childish and impossible, we let ourselves die in the span between success in the real world and personal achievement. Our dreams become hollow, just as God has become useless, and we find we have nothing left. Nothing left of what we believed in, what we put so much stock in, and in the end all we can do is try to dream again.
May 15, 2007
Author's Note: I don't know what to say, I have nothing to say, no one does.
You've Shown Me the World as It Could Be
When you’re a child it’s so easy. So easy to believe in fairy tales and God, so easy to imagine big futures and create impossible goals, so easy because you’re told anything is possible, that you are capable of doing whatever you set your heart to. What no one tells you is that when you grow older, your heart becomes practical, and those fantasies seem so childish, and you want more realistic goals for yourself. Of course, true to human nature, we never stop dreaming, the child lives on secretly, maybe more practically, but continues to dream. When one dream dies, new ones kick in, and the cycle never stops. You keep dreaming, your imagination keeps the child alive, if only to continue the fantasy you base your adult life after. It’s not always a fantasy that comes true, but it is always there, gnawing at your insides, growing from the food of your soul, dying to be alive, dying to exist outside of your body. The fantasy becomes your inner self, it becomes who you are alone, in the car, in the dark. And your exterior and interior combat for your attention. You dream in the meantime, between living your life. You feed the beautiful monster your childlike spirit has created, you nurture it for all of your life. When you retire, you imagine you may have the chance to bring it to the world, the real world with the real people, and let it live for once as it was meant to. None of us know, however, that there is a binding source, something keeping the dream inside while we wilt away in the real world dying to let it out. We work all of our lives to finally birth the fantasy that has been brewing inside, only to find that our hard work, what we believed made life worth living, was the only thing holding us back from death. The moment we stop working, trying to give life to something childish and impossible, we let ourselves die in the span between success in the real world and personal achievement. Our dreams become hollow, just as God has become useless, and we find we have nothing left. Nothing left of what we believed in, what we put so much stock in, and in the end all we can do is try to dream again.
May 15, 2007
Author's Note: I don't know what to say, I have nothing to say, no one does.
You've Shown Me the World as It Could Be
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