I dreamed of a life better than my dreams.

One where my life had purpose.

My dreams had meaning, ripe with the definitive.

Illusions of grandeur

Childhood is filled with them.


Dreams of what adulthood would look like.

If you weren’t the popular kid then,

Adulthood could be that missing link,

Turn you into what you’ve longed for.

Such are the dreams of childhood.


I should be bitter about such things.

Such childish hopes,

Wither when faced with the cruelty of adulthood,

But I’m not.

With childlike faith I cling with reckless abandon.


Only a child would believe life is what you make.

Perhaps its why we’ve lived so long.



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