Overview

Where do dreams go when they die?

Silver lines the deep blue sky, promises of a rainy day to come. The wind carries your voice, a ghostly call of my name sending shivers down my spine, baby where are you? The last coughs of smoke rise into the chimney, even fire has given up. From whence comes my warmth. You left, out the door and never looked back. In the distant meadow, flowers once vibrant under the yellow rays’ frizz and shiver. Life has left all of us.

We had dreams, simple dreams that lined our existence. Entwined in our love were wishes of a greater love. A love that shook the world so hard that cracks formed around us, there you found your escape. I wished upon a dandelion carried by the wind, wishing upon its fragile seed maybe when it falls, there you will stand.

Where do dreams go when they die?

Is there a heaven or hell for our unfulfilled wishes? Perhaps a recycling plant to send them back to us in our next life. What happens to the wishes we made as two? Are they duplicated and shared between us, or is there a deity who picks and weighs, searches and judges finally giving them to the person better fit?

I want mine back. Wishes. I’d like to revise them, edit and refine…change the font and underline and send them out into the world DHL Express. I want them to make it to the frontline. The wish granter to give me priority. Why? Because I am dying, barely grasping at the last straws of life. I need him back. No! I wish upon a shooting star, fiery and furious, wish upon a genie in a jar rubbing on the lamp as hard as my delicate palms can for my love to come back.

Fruitless effort. I have wasted my breath, brain cells and body muscle on a futile exercise. I know wishes don’t come true. Just look at us. You exist in a realm of dreams and no matter how much I clench my teeth and fold my fists you cannot come to life.  Buyer beware! There ae no rewards for buying into fantasy.

It is better to spend my efforts building that which is in my hands. Wisdom is knowing when to stop dreaming and start living. The sun will shine again tomorrow, flowers will bloom, birds will sing. Though a struggle it may be, I will go out to smell the roses, dance in the rain, barefoot on the grass (Ed Sheeran was right, it feels great). However, our favorite song will be banned from my ears.

I cannot promise to stop wishing. Maybe someday, someone will answer, “here I am” a gentle whisper that will calm my racing heart. I will not waste my second chance.

WRITER: Ciku Maigua