This is probably the case for most writers but recently I’ve been thinking about the people in my life and I noticed something. Dreams. Not the nighttime variety but the “I wanna be an astronaut when I grow up,” kind. I don’t know anyone who feels they’ve made their dreams come true. This could be in reference to their job, family, or lifestyle. And of course this is a sad reality to be faced with but what bothers me the most is how some people accept it. They don’t spend their lives fighting for their dream and then suddenly give up after facing a mound of disappointment. That would at least be somewhat encouraging. They don’t “grow out of it.” That would be another thing altogether.
No, the people I’m talking about keep their dreams a secret. Quietly hoping that one day it might be possible but never doing anything to actually make it happen. Waiting forty plus years before offering up a peep about it. And I have to ask myself why. Are they afraid of failure … or success? Or do they just know enough to suspect it won’t be all it’s cracked up to be once they get it? In that case do they think it’s much safer not to even try?
So, anyway one of my favorite poems came to mind.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?