From the extreme perspective of a starry-eyed dreamer

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Dreams don’t die; people do. 

The moment you develop a dream, you birth an idea; you paint for yourself a picture of what could be. But ideas aren’t like people, see. Ideas exist in the realm of the abstract. The moment they come to be, they just are, and there is no end to them. So the birth of a dream is not one that leads to a death, but to a state of being in a world separate from our own until we reach out and pull it into reality.

We, however, can die. We who think and feel and create. We who are made of heart and mind. We who are brought to life by passion. We die to ourselves when the passion fades; when the heart turns cold and the mind grows still. We die to the world when it has nothing left to offer us. When the colors around us turn to grey and the depth of our being is diminished to the single line from the day we were born to the day we meet the grave. The existence of ourselves is a fragile thing, really. We were born with purpose and with that purpose comes identity. When that purpose is lost, we become nothing. We find ourselves gone in the grey, stuck in the concrete.

I refuse to let this become of myself. Life is too large not to find meaning in, there is too much hope for me not to be brave and I am too valuable not to be found. So I will find my way, regardless of how long it may take, how painful it may be, or how difficult it may get. Because I know that my life depends on it.

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