When dreams die.

Shreya Vikram

When I was younger, I’d always dreamed of becoming an astronaut one day.

It made no sense, of course. But that’s why they called it a dream. It distorts our reality, disfigures our truth.

Reality was a fluid thing, those days. Malleable, willing to be shaped into whatever we wanted, whatever we asked for. We held our world there, in the cup of our hands. Our fat little fingers, delicate skin, we had power in them.

That was a long time ago.

All of it was a lie.

We never knew loss then, we had nothing to lose.

We never knew doubt and suspicion and wariness and an ever-present fear of change.

We never knew that hope- in the world, but also in ourselves-would leave us some day.

But most of all, we never knew what it would be like to stop dreaming.

They kept us in our gilded cages…

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