I’m not one to speak on my dreams, out loud for others to hear, to weigh in on and I guess shoot down. I have a very real fear of being laughed at for the things I want to accomplish, because I live in a world that doesn’t favour dreams.
I live in a world where dreams are currency; traded away for comfort and survival.
I live in a world where dreams don’t survive; they don’t see the light of day and are most likely to haunt you than inspire you.
So for the longest time, I remained silent.
I allowed my dreams to stew, bake and bubble and to some extent ferment.
I was afraid.
If nobody knew what I wanted, what I dreamed of, then nobody could recognise my failures. To speak it is to give it power; power to inspire you or power to break you, I wasn’t going to be broken. I’ve stood by and watched family members use dreams to crush someone’s spirit, and I was never going to become one of those people.
So I remained silent.
I allowed my secret dreams to be my own, I didn’t share them with a soul (maybe one or two), but I spoke very little of them.
I remained afraid.
But that’s not entirely true; I revealed them to hundreds, paraded them before gatekeepers and prayed they were enough, that I was enough.
Time and again I was proven right; my dreams were broken, battered, shot down, ignored and thrown aside, but I kept them. Sometimes I feel like they’re a delusion, an insistent poison that won’t stop until I’ve broken.
Sometimes I feel like there’s more to them. For them to have survived so long, to have grown and strengthened can only mean they’re worth something.
So I’ll keep them, I’ll commit them to flesh and have them dance in the light in the hope that someone will favour them and honour them.