The problem with being a dreamer, of course, is that all dreams end.
We know this. Deep in the heart of the place where fantasies dwell in our minds, we know that most of the things we dream about are really not going to come to pass. That all dreams have an end, usually the one we are not hoping for.
We turn our heads from this reality. We simple refuse to think that such a thing can or will come to pass. The pastels grow more intense as we paint them over the encroaching dawn of reality, the fibers of the dreams pulling tighter and tighter until they are straining with stress of keeping the whole thing knit together.
And then, in a single moment, the air is suddenly let out and it collapses.
We fight it. We try to find ways to keep the envelope expanded and alive, the colors as bright as they ever were. But as it collapses it thins out as well, until we are pushing nothing but our hands into the air trying to keep nothing suspended above our heads.
I cannot tell you how many times this exact scenario has played out in my life - 100? More? The circumstances are always different; the result is always the same. I stand in the emerging dawn of another day of reality with nothing but the faintest wisps of my dreams fading away like a mist.
I sigh. Sometimes I weep. Always there comes the process of mourning the dream, of letting yet another one that never had the chance of coming true fade into memory.
And then, like a fool, I start looking for the next dream. Because someday, my mind tells me, one will finally come try.