It seemed as if there were endless possibilities stretched out before me. I could achieve so many things, i had so much time, i was armed with bountiful ideas that took me to places that our world can't even contain. I could be a graceful ice skater, i could find the end of the rainbow with pots of gold awaiting my eager hands, i could climb the tallest trees and gaze at the tiny specks of people, of buildings, of roads and shrubs and trees and hills, of the sunlight drifting down my face as i look at the wonderment right beneath my fingertips. I could hop on a bus and let it lead me to a destination i had no intentions of going to, i could join the circus and ride on elephants as they go traipsing through the claustrophobic atmosphere of a little, domed circus tent. I could be an actress, a singer, a writer, a performer who lits the stage with her mere presence and a tiny flick of her dark, tousled locks streaming down her rosy face. I could sit and draw and paint for days, listening to the sound of the bristles of a paintbrush against an empty canvas, watch as that very canvas turned into an array of colour and compelling fantasies, smell the sharp, acrid smell of fresh paint on the colour-splattered palette, mixing them to form another. I could lock myself in a room full of books and sit reading from dusk till dawn, never leaving my designated spot until the very last pages of a book so telling, so gripping was finished, then only would i be satisfied enough to stand, dust myself off, and go hunting for another gem amongst the tomes and tomes encased upon bookshelves. I could travel the world, watch all the musicals on Broadway and traipse around New York city, admire the Northern lights in Alaska, stand awe-inspired in front of the Taj Mahal, visit the tower of London and try to recall how many deaths were executed there, place a rose upon a soldier's grave who fought valiantly in WWI, romp in the valleys and fields where The Lord of the Rings was shot, ski down the Alps of Switzerland, write a letter to Juliet and post it on her wall, in Vienna.
I could do so many things, be anything i ever wanted to be. My future seemed endless, a book waiting to be filled with words of excitement and adventure, a vague sketch yearning to be outlined and splashed with vivid colours that inspires the soul, an empty slate, grasping for knowledge at every available interval, a tunnel with numerous roads, signs, pathways, gates and exits to choose. It was like that, in the mind of a child whose innocence was still intact, whose naivete led her to believe that absolutely anything was possible if she wished it, where she thought the world in which she lived in was kind and good and fair, where she thought opportunities were readily given to her, she only had to ask.
It could have been. That's the thing. It could HAVE been. So many things, so many experiences and aspirations and goals got sucked down the drain and emptied into the vast wasteland of broken dreams, because we stopped dreaming. We stopped hoping for the impossible to happen and settled for the predictable, the safe things. We grew up, threw away our fanciful thoughts and became sensible, halting any other ideas that may seem to far fetched for our little narrow minded brains.
But you know? i don't think i've ever stopped dreaming. Dreaming and hoping that one day, i still might be able to achieve some of the things my mind has automatically crossed out just because it does not seem like a plausible feat at the moment. One day, perhaps, one day i would see the world, i would fulfill and tick off the things i've written down mentally in my bucketlist. It's not meant to be done now, but one day, whenever that may be, i will go off exploring the world on my own, and be whatever my heart told me to be.
Till then, i'll keep dreaming. Dreaming and hoping and working towards that goal, until the day it comes into fruition. I couldn't wait for that moment to arrive.
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