Living in my Dreams

He is oblivious.
 
He has ignorance in its purest form, as do all boys his age, living only to enjoy life without worry or anxiety.
 
We are the same, he and I, for I was he, as he is now me. But he is not the one staring back at me in the mirror. His existence is limited to remembrance.
 
He is in my memories, the labyrinth of my mind, where he will forever dwell, where I will always remember and always envy him.
 
I see him only in my dreams, in the field of green that, at his age, seems to go on forever in all directions—the backyard. Yet this field—as well as the rest of the world—always seems to grow smaller with age, losing its enormity and gaining boundaries.
 
Here he is king. Or a bandit, or a cop—or whatever he desires to be. And his desires change often. Today he is a knight, and taking up a stick—no, a sword—he defends the castle from a fire-breathing dragon.
 
He stumbles over a stone and I quickly go to help him to his feet. Skinned knees—the single greatest tragedy. I can see the frustration in his face, ready to give up as he falls once again to the ground. I come to his aid once more, this time with a word.
 
“There may be times when all hope seems lost,” I say to him, “but you must not let your spirits be dampened. Anything is possible when you give your all. Never give up!”
 
There were more lessons I have learned that I could share: lives led on false hopes are hopeless ones, and some dreams that are chased cannot be caught. My dreams are too much to ask for; some wishes cannot be granted.
 
But I simply add, “Keep your dreams intact, but keep them at bay.”
 
He runs off to continue on his adventure, not knowing the meaning behind my words and quickly forgetting them—living in his own carefree world.
 
I hopelessly search the mirror for that boy. I long to lead his life once more, not knowing the world that many refuse to accept as reality. But I cannot find him.
 
I am living in my dreams.