The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams
is the lack of time. The busiest people I have known in my life always have
time enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are always tired and pay no
attention to the little amount of work they are required to do. They complain
constantly that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid to fight
the Good Fight.
The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our
certainties. Because we don’t want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin
to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life.
We look beyond the walls of our day-to-day existence, and we hear the sound of
lances breaking, we smell the dust and the sweat, and we see the great defeats
and the fire in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight, the
immense delight in the hearts of those who are engaged in the battle. For them,
neither victory nor defeat is important; what’s important is only that they are
fighting the Good Fight.
And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of our
dreams is peace. Life becomes a Sunday afternoon; we ask for nothing grand, and
we cease to demand anything more than we are willing to give. In that state, we
think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fantasies of our youth,
and we seek personal and professional achievement. We are surprised when people
our age say that they still want this or that out of life. But really, deep in
our hearts, we know that what has happened is that we have renounced the battle
for our dreams – we have refused to fight the Good Fight.
When we renounce our dreams and find peace, we go through a
short period of tranquility. But the dead dreams begin to rot within us and to
infect our entire being.
We become cruel to those around us, and then we begin to
direct this cruelty against ourselves. That’s when illnesses and psychoses
arise. What we sought to avoid in combat – disappointment and defeat – come
upon us because of our cowardice.
And one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to
breathe. And there’s nothing left to free us from our certainties, from our
work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons.
- note to self. in the verge of killing mine. 10/18/13
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