"He was thirty years old. No young swain or avenging son. Those dreams were dead. He had made the decision long ago, as most of us do, to let go of childish fantasies, no matter how true, how blazing and pure and right they seemed. Because it hurt too much. To survive and stay present he had to let go. Slowly he exchanged wishes for workdays, dreams for dollars. Because it hurt too much. He couldn’t stay sane waiting for fairies and dragons while balancing chequebooks and working overtime. He stopped staring at the stars, searching for a glimpse of something. Something big and secret, fantastic and grand. Something wonderful. It hurt too much."
Sad isn’t it? It nearly broke my heart to write it, almost like I was giving something away. Don’t worry though, methinks he may be in for a surprise….heh….
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