The amusing thing about dreams is, even while dreaming one is unsure of its attainability-one's own ability, its susceptibility-one's own vulnerability. One just goes on dreaming and dreaming. Even at the hindsight, there may be ifs and buts but there is never a single entity to blame-neither the dreamer nor those part of the dream nor even the dream. All his life he dreamed sweet dreams, pure dreams, long dreams but the ones that required inclusion of others-be it for sanction, be it for celebration. The more he tried the more he failed.
"Should one, then, dream within the boundary of reason and means only?" he is pondering.
A things that reasons itself out with immediate surrounding, he doesn't consider a dream. Its a settlement, an adjustment. a process oriented approach that may keep one busy but not a dream. A dream is dream first, reasoning later-limitless, borderless, adamant yet afresh, helpless yet uplifting, hurt but full of heart, dying yet flying-that's what a dream is to him.
It was neither rational nor in his means when he dreamed his dream but such insisting was his dream, it made him adamant. He would reason with situations, argue with people but always in favor of his dream. Some would relent, some would appreciate, most would harp, most would discourage. He cared for none, neither relations nor career, just his dream. After all, that was what a dream to him.
The ordeal had started much before he took his dream train yet he boarded it with aplomb. There was shine in his eyes, there was unyielding will to cross the final frontier and he never thought for a moment of failure and options thereafter. So naive was him, so unrelenting this world. And so deeply was he absorbed in his space, neither comfort nor majority mattered to him.
But as it happens mostly, just when he was almost there, just when he progenated his first prototype, demons of past would haunt him. Just when he was so close, he was overwhelmed. It was usual of him-his unpreparedness to accept the eternal longing whenever it knocked on his door. Whether it was love, whether his dream-he would get chocked in the final moments. The dream he had drowned in the same ocean he fought all life, the sea of circumstances, social norms, oddity. He knew all along he would have to reason-with people, with means, with fate, with system-everything that would give the final acknowledgement to his being. And he readied himself hard, too, but just when it was the time, just when his nerves needed to be held-he backed out. A stream of vague idealism had engulfed him-it was lying dormant all along but just when was required for it to sleep one more night, it roared furiously. It decimated everything that came its way but there came nothing except the infantile dream.
Is he hurt then? Yes but not for him, for his dream. After all, it was the dream that gave him the time of his life. There is never a failed dream nor a failed dreamer, there is mixed past and there is a missed tomorrow. He had betrayed his past and he killed his tomorrow. But such is ,usually, the fate of a wild chase.
It's been months now since the fiasco and he's wondering at the entire episode. An epic that was to be and that took six long and most important years in the making, had ended in a thunderous disaster. All these while he is trying to curb every urge to look ahead so close, after all, was his dream to him. With every 'what next?' there is a 'but why?' and 'for whom?'.
Those dreams are all drowned
Those eyebrows are all frowned,
He ,too, would've been crowned,
But the naivety would surround
From 'within' always came a sound
But it never yielded a penny forget about pound
He aimed for the sky that was not to be found
And he fought and lost all along the ground
Hearts break, dreams drown, people fail, men die, people try but such is life none bothers.