Beneath the shadows of life,
Under the rubble of responsibility,
Camouflaged by the cumbersome details,
Lie the forgotten dreams.

Not forgotten. . .
Not entirely anyway. . .
They lurk,
Skulk,
Linger,
In the attics of our minds.

Our younger selves who know no limits.
It is they who know what could be.
It is they who hold the keys.
It is they who dream the dreams.

But dreams are the property of the future.
The present has other temptations.
Money to be made,
Comfort to be savored,
Routines to be accepted. . .

And so the dreams are stowed.
But our young self doesn’t give up easily.
He is the misunderstood frustration,
The unaccountable despair,
The baseless dissatisfaction,
We feel. . .
As days turn into years.

Until he resigns himself to his spot in the attic,
Behind the boxes of dreams.
It is there he waits,
To be loosed on the world.

Don’t be afraid.
His intentions are good.
He will teach you to dance,
To sing,
To fly. . .

Let him remind you of what it’s like to be free.
To follow the dreams,
The ones that seem foolish,
Without hesitation.

Possible. . . Impossible. . .

Can. . .Can’t. . .

Dreams. . . Reality. . .

The dreamer knows there is no difference.
No difference at all.
And that is why he’ll rule the world. . .
If you let him.