I tried so hard to move on

I am hardly a romantic; in fact, my friends claim that cynicism is my bread and butter. Yet the desire to see one fairy tale come true, to see something miraculous, doesn’t quite burn down with age. The older I grow the more something inside me, maybe my heart, splits into two- one half clinging to all those foolish outdated and childish dreams of outstanding valor, spellbinding beauty and happiness for forever. The other part picks up broken pieces of me from the battlefield where the harsh and indifferent world won and then throws them down with scorn, mocking me for being foolish enough to have attempted the impossible. Is this growing up?





The dreams were more than mere pastimes or desires; they were woven together from the best of things, the very best of everything that I have ever known, noted meticulously, remembered from books, movies, stories heard in the dark (designed to put me to sleep but which made me fight off sleep so that I could hear, till the very last words), small details of beauty- the way he widens his eyes when he is insisting on even the most trivial things, the way the grass looks golden in the setting sun

and bents in the wind, all together, from horizon to horizon, the way you can see the sea-bed under neck deep water on some sea beaches and the way there is a gurgling silence in your ears when you are under water.





No one else seemed to notice, no one else seemed to care.





I know that these dreams are stupid and silly. There are a lot of other things, better things and more important things to worry about like derivatives of bands and kets, projects and grades. “There will always be time for everything else once you get your future sorted out.” I wonder who said it first and if he did do everything else. Why the else with everything? Is this growing up?





I liked it better when it was all dreams. I hate this struggle. But I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want no dreams.