The life of a dream

After closing, wandering the aisles of the library she works in, she has the impulse to walk by the Magical Realism section. The titles wink at her one by one, each inviting her to pick them up for a read.

However, her eyes rest on a journal stacked in between two novels. She pulls it off the shelf and starts reading.


26 November, 1881

I invented a thought in the evening. Fabricated it from the thrill of desire, from arrows to infinity and flashes of aspirations. And I thought it was mine; I clung to it tight and inhaled its scent from time to time, for a moment.
With its fragrance in my nostrils, I closed my eyes and experienced a little small moment of happiness.

Nevertheless, this dream grows. It greedily consumes the most guarded of introspections, the moments of silence and delay. It slips through my fingers; it’s too substantial for my delicate hands, and then I notice – I am no longer carrying it with me. It’s not mine anymore… now I am its and follow it helplessly. It’s like a drug. The aroma of it makes me drunk, the hallucinations of its becoming reality drive me crazy.

I’m tracking my dream! And it’s not easy. My dream is cunning. It’s hiding in the darkest corners. I think I lost it, but then before I give up, I am able to feel its flavor again carrying me like a demon on thorn beaten paths, on silver flashes, through the air of my own conscience… and I meet up with myself.

I look at myself suspiciously, ask questions, doubt my own powers, question motives, raise an eyebrow and nod. I do not agree with myself. What should I do? The dream departs, and I can barely discern its silhouette from behind a wave of distrust.
I gaze into my eyes and utter “Farewell. We’ll meet in the dream!”
And I start after it once more.

After a while, the road seems more even. It seems easier to see into the distance. My forehead smoothens from the surprise of the dream coming close to me. It takes my hand, we walk next to each other. We stroll together for a split second. Such divine happiness fills me up! I caught up with myself! I am myself again. I’m back, me and my dream.

I’d want this to hold out for a lifetime, but we come to the crossroads. My dream beckons me to stop. It looks into my eyes, kisses me on the forehead and departs, turning into a spring draft and leads glazed frost of hope in the world. This is where dreams die …

I feel dispirited. I yearn for my dream back; and it takes some time to grasp that my dream is now a reality.

There was that moment, that spark of pure happiness, when we held hands, my dream and I facing reality, when I felt most contented. Its becoming reality doesn’t live up to that exact sensation, even if for this moment, reality is worth all the torment, all endeavors, all the feelings of helplessness and all the silent sighs.

Dreams die when gaining a bodily form. Dreams are not like us, composed of a body and soul. We die when the two are separated… Dreams die when the two encounter.

And yet, there remains that moment of standing at the crossroads…


She couldn’t tell who left the journal behind. She probably never would. Nevertheless, standing at the crossroads herself, she needed to read those exact words… and the vast Universe of Writing has provided.

~ by Estrella Azul

Visit Life’s a stage – WebBlog to catch a glimpse of what matters to Estrella most and what makes her heart beat a little faster 😉
Staff Writer at Milliver’s Travels
Associate Editor of Friday Flash Dot Org