A Pile of Dreams

Remember the line from Les Mis:  "Now life has killed the dream I dreamed?"  It's such an incredibly sad line.  But here's a question for you:  

Do you think dreams
ever really die?   

In the past, I've always thought that the dreams we have that are never realized must fade away to nothing.  Or else, come to a sudden and painful end.  But lately, it has occurred to me that maybe our dreams are such an integral part of who we are, so closely entwined with our own beings, that even when all hope is gone, they still remain part of us.  Perhaps they speak less of our future, than they do of who we are as individuals and the things we value in life.  The great disappointment comes in trying to reconcile our expectations for dream-fulfillment with the realities of life.  So perhaps the problem isn't so much the unrealized dream, as it is our own expectations.  Oh but, sometimes it's hard to walk the middle-ground between hoping for the best and expecting the worst!   I am not by nature a jaded person, and have no wish to harden my heart in order to survive.


A Pile Of Dreams


I have a pile of dreams,
A pile of dreams in my attic.
They're mostly books,
With enticing titles and magical pictures,
Characters, human and animal alike,
Invented to entice readers of all ages,
Tales of adventure, sorrow, and joy,
Dreams within a dream.
But there's also a tea set
Each cup fashioned with a teddy bear for a handle
And strawberries growing on the lid of the tea pot.
There's a doll house - half finished, purchased at a yard sale
Its roof covered in miniature cedar shakes
Its two stories, waiting for completion,
Waiting for a miniature family to take up residence
And make it a home.


I had a pile of dreams,
But they have vanished.
The books are there still, somewhere
Covered in dust, their characters grown cold
From lack of attention,
No sticky little fingers have left smudges on their pages,
While reading the stories into life.
The tea set is boxed, oh so carefully.
Enshrouded in styrofoam, cardboard, and tape.
The doll house sits unfinished,
A white elephant whose purpose has always remained a mystery,
To the garden rakes, dust mops, and half empty paint cans
That share space with it in the garage.