Short Little Stories

When I was a child, I dreamed a child’s dreams, of toys and playtime and the occasional monster.

When I was a young man, I dreamed a young man’s dreams, of hormones and worry and lust and desire.

When I turned two and twenty, I no longer had dreams.

Each dawn I’d awake as fresh as can be. Filled with energy, confidence, vitality.

I’d go through the day with fervor and grace, but still always felt the faintest feeling of loss.

I’d long to be tired, to close my eyes, to hope for a moment a dream would arise. I’d spend the day dreaming of dreaming, to no avail. My life went on turning, the dreams remained unsung.

Ten years have gone by, and sometimes I wonder if I ever truly had dreams at all. Does my memory lie? Has this always been my state? If not – what went wrong, and will it forever remain?

There you have it, there you are – my fondest hope and desire. A single night’s dreaming is all I require. Grant me one dream, grant me my wish, and I’ll return to my daily living and shut up about this.