At some point age demands a realistic passing of dreams and idealism. And wether or not we have managed to follow our dreams or whether we find ourselves in unexpected circumstances, the outcome seems to be the same; What we seek is not the solution it promised to be. Illusions scatter. And we are wounded. For most of us what made the world special and what made us special was a lie replaced now by whatever we can make of this new reality. But some of us realize that the only illusion we suffered was to see one thing as special instead of all things. You can never be wrong to believe that in your work you are taking part in the greatest, most beautiful thing. Surley you are, whether you know it or not. And I see that you have begun to transform what hardened you with fear and dissapiontment into something more honest, so that it lifts you up even in saddness, if not especially. To choose alone and not lonley, to be not positive or negative but pure of heart, honest enough to silence even our 'selves'...is the most real, responsible and adult we can ever hope to be.
Dreams are made to age, not to die. Where young dreams dwell in hope and wait for happiness to arrive, aged dreams become what cannot be explained to young dreamers, existing firmly now and no longer in thought but in quiet, secret action. And no one would know an old dreamer from the younger until they see the man who never stops smiling, and know THEMSELVES that it is not because he hopes through all his misfortune, but because he is aware through the deepest most genuine reflection that there is no misfortune. He knows a secret thing and to everyone else, it looks like magic :) The true happiness of the aged dreamer is impossible to dream of, because no eyes that believe in dreams can see it. To test our dreams and to feel we have found everything in them, or nothing at all is a task you are making worth while for yourself. This serious girl takes your super awesomeness very seriously and she loves you.
Soledad es la casa de dios.
p.s. keep up with the poetry