The real danger of dreams is that they can kill you. Not just your body, but your soul.
You can pour so much of yourself into them that when you fail, you don’t exist anymore.
Empty. Dark. Nothingness.
It’s the worst kind of torture, because it fucks with your mind.
My mind. My dreams. And I killed myself.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so agonizing except I have done this so many times before.
Dreamed BIG…failed…died.
Died. And somehow, eventually, a drop of hope found it’s way inside my brain and I slowly began again, stood up, started to walk, moving up the mountain, focused on the summit, a new dream, crossing the crevasses of doubt and fear, struggling to breathe,
Wondering,
“Why?”
“Why am I doing this?”
I look around, the mountain is bare of life, me, only me, no other humans want to be on this mountain, no other humans in sight, all lost, down, down in the valley below.
I ache for life in that valley, fantasize about it, wish it were mine, visit it sometimes, families around tables, friends drinking beer, then to sleep, and back to “work”…
Perhaps it was the “work” that frightened me. Watching those around me go dream dead over time, giving up on their hopes as they simply put in their time, day after day, ground down into nothingness. I left as soon as I felt this narcotic bliss begin to fog my head, returned to the mountain, my mountain, my dreams, my aloneness…my death…
What is the real danger then? Dying on a mountain of my own making, far from any other souls, simply driven to live a curse deep inside my heart, but knowing, as I take my last breath, that this really was my life, all that I could be…or staring out the window of life, looking up at a mountain that could have been, dying day by day afraid to walk out the door and begin the climb.
This, now, is the real danger of dreams.
