They say hope is what makes progress. To have hope is to be able to dream. I’m not sure how it would work the other way to dream and not have hope. I think this equation is a one way street.
A few days ago I met 2 American girls. They were travelling and we hung out. What a breath of fresh air! I felt my 10 years difference even though they graciously said I looked younger than they are. They had such hope, such ferocity in living. We were at the book store and they pointed all the good books the kind that you knew you’ll be crying and laughing when you read them. And they had read them, weathered through the moments that touched their souls, melt their hearts and turned pages with teary eyes. This is what dreams are made of, courage to hope. Beside them, I’m was infected. So dare I say, here’s my dream, before I recover from the disease or develop immunity.
I dream that the guy I love will cross my path in central park in new York city in autumn. And he’ll realise that he can love and commit and that he is made for couple hood. And he’ll come to me on christmas eve because that’s how we started, knocks on the door to my little Parisian apartment, with my favourite flowers, tulips, in his hands or some wild little flowers, and tells me he wants to give it a try. That we will work it out, to have work that we love and travel to the ends of the world to discover new things, to relive old magic, to uncover theories that we can talk about endlessly and have glorious copulation. (just to observe the civilities of internet language.)
There, in a breath, that’s my dream. I’m so tempted to add my usual realistic practical pessimistic self defeating words but I’ll hold it. I’ll dream for a moment. I might even pick up one of those books my American friends mentioned. I’ll be damned. That’s all I’ll say.