Where do dreams go?
I wanted to be an astronaut, feel the rumble of the rocket in my bones, hear the pop of Capcom in my headset, listen to ventilation fans in deep space. Didn't happen.
I wanted to be a movie director, walk in the cool shadow of sound stages, feel the pages of a script, shout instructions over a crowd scene. Didn't happen.
Whenever I read someone remark, "Hey I did (fill in blank of amazing feat). Don't give up. Follow your dreams!", I wonder what happens to those who don't make it. Is there a statue of limitations on dreams? Maybe I wasn't realistic. Or it wasn't meant to be. Or I was meant to be (fill in blank of something else).
Where do dreams go when they're not fulfilled?
Maybe my thinking is too limited. Maybe there's a island somewhere in South Pacific where trade winds rustle palm trees, where foamy breakers hiss on a sandy shore, where dreams come to vacation on creaking hammocks and sip sweet pog.
Maybe there's cabin in a forest, where a woodpecker hammers on the bark, where river flows around polished rocks, where falling pine needles sound like rain, where wood crackles in campfire, where dreams roast marshmallows on a stick and watch them puff up into a globe of swollen sweetness.
Where do dreams go when they're unfulfilled?
A Twelve-Step Program? "Hi, my name is I Want to be An Astronaut and I'm a dream."
A dank, dungeon where putrid luminescent creatures gibber and slosh in flabby oils.
Tonight, I will go to sleep and dream.
And then wake up the next morning and type.