All my life, I have had dreams.

The dreams have changed as I grew older, but they’ve always been there.

And I’d all but given up on them.

All of them.

Until very recently, my life was nothing but trying to learn how to cope with the death of my dreams.

You may think I’m being a little overdramatic, but I’m not. I’m serious and not exaggerating in the least.

But recently, I’ve learned that some of my dreams are actually within reach.

And, oddly, that actually makes me even more depressed. Maybe depressed isn’t the right word – anxious, scared, nervous, worried…

I don’t know what to do with that idea.

I don’t know what to do with the idea of my dreams – some, all, any of them – actually coming true, or even having the potential of coming true.

I’ve become so used to becoming a failure, I don’t know at all what to do with the idea that I may not be one after all, even at some point in the future.

And I’m scared to resurrect those dreams, because they just might die again, and I think it would hurt worse the second time. Heartbreak is worse if there is first hope.

And yet… I will keep pursuing them. Because, to be quite frank, I’ve got nothing better to do.