It’s a weird relationship we have with our dreams. At a young age it nurtures us because dreams can still become a reality; but at a later stage in life, it eats away at our souls as it slowly starts to resemble the many things that will never be.

Because you don’t see it coming, do you? Just one day, all of a sudden, the storm arrives and the tides turn.

Gone are your panache and pizzazz. Gone are your audacity and affirmations. Gone are the fun and fuckery of waxing poetry. Because sisi puede is now no bueno.

You’re back in the hole again, that familiar emptiness that always welcomes you— silent, vicious, bitter, and petty and horrible and hidden. It’s just like that Doors song: “People are strange when you’re a stranger/ Faces look ugly when you’re alone…”

You’ve been at it for so long and now you’re not sure of what you’re looking for anymore. Reasons and rhetoric have lived and died, and now what’s left seems so meaningless.

You know you’re dreams will kill you, so you kill it first.

And yet you knew that all along, didn’t you? I guess knowing the Devil is not the same as when he is knocking at your door. When that feeling follows you in the streets, and the whole world doesn’t know what you are going through. Not out of spite, just as you are unaware of the suffering around you.

Nonetheless, even as the introspectre stares, it is human nature to remain hopeful, to think that this personal rut is temporary and that you can recover. It’s part of the package deal in the dreamer’s disease, a silent deathmatch against yourself.

The life you have right now VS The life you’ve always wanted.

Good times, bad times. Do you even know what you had? And if you have none then you better make one. You still have the rest of your life left. Because no one really knows where they are going, just where they want to go.

So which one do you kill? Or will it kill you first?