Reader,

Tonight I don’t want to write.

I want to close my eyes and imagine him with me.

I want to flee to a distant land.

Of oases and light houses and

Build castles in the sand.

But I cannot sleep.

I listen to tales of love lost on the radio.

Music should not make one so blue.

This growing up is difficult.

A butterfly with wings of dew.

Spinning till it hits the ground with futile finality.

It does not permit me to dream.

There are so many things I do not know.

Yet I feel so old.

I am but wisps of colourless smoke.

I could not break the mould.

I am taught there are more important things in life.

Success, Money, Power, Happiness...

Happiness?

And see Reader, we are back to square one.

What happiness can a broken family or a sordid love affair provide you?

But I have known others who have survived on less.

I am finally cured of Hope.

Thank you, World.

But this much I know that when my newborn cries

I will not teach his eyes

to dream.

Dreams are but a pack of lies

 for successful human beings.

                    ***