When Dreams Die

Dreams don’t die easily. At least that’s what I’ve come to know. Writers pen their musings about the deaths of dreams in all sorts of ways, from every perspective, using all manner of phrasing. Well, here's my take:

We often say: “I lost my dream…” It sounds almost benign, doesn't it? As if we’ve somehow misplaced it…can’t seem to find it…but figure it may turn up again...someday. That’s not too bad. It happens all the time with keys and address books and sunglasses and buttons. Why not dreams?

I guess it depends on the dream, no? Some dreams are pretty ethereal (or pretty petty) to begin with. Relatively inconsequential dreams can come or go. No harm done. Call it part of life’s mystery and charm.

But what if the dream was everything…the one thing…you truly wanted and needed? Dreams that big die hard…and it isn’t pretty when they go.

Picture an enormous crystal cathedral…spires, apses, altars, vaults and domes galore. It is the profound expression of a human heart. The soul soars exultantly within that shimmering, prismatic space. Now, just imagine when that thing goes! I mean, c’mon, that has to be one gut-wrenching, horrifying, deadly disaster. Shards go flying, tearing through everything, slicing, wounding...as they scream by. The din, the smoke, the quake...the specter, alone, can scar the soul.

When dreams that big die, devastation follows.

“I lost my dream,” he says. But he stands on rubble…in Dresden, or Hiroshima, or in the wake of a hurricane named Katrina. “I lost my dream” doesn’t sound quite as benign anymore.

Dreams don’t die easily. They don’t go quietly. There’s only suffering and grief at ground zero.

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