Once upon a time I had a dream that bore dreams that in turn gave birth to more dreams.
I forgot to live those dreams or to even go beyond those dreams.
Instead, I kept my dreams in my back pack.
Occasionally, I unpacked them one by one with a meticulous care, placed them side by side and gently stroked at imaginary creases and folds.
Like many dreamers before I, I treated my dreams like aunts and grandmothers treated their finest bone china. On occasion my aunt would reach into the trunk that sat at the foot of her sealy posturepedic, pull out ornate dishes wrapped in yesterdays news of pending revolutions and speak of dinner parties still to be had in houses still to be built with friends still to be made. She would share her dreams with me and I in turn, would reward the moment with a treat from my own back pack.
I'd share tiny pieces of my dreams with her in a manner slightly reminiscent of school kids in court yards showcasing their packed lunches. The room would fill with glee as we presented how our lives really could be if only this and if only that. But these moments were short lived pleasures.
Our dreams, once bared, would suddenly feel too naked and lesser somehow at the scrutinity of ... .
Well we weren't sure of what exactly.
But we knew not to stay out too late with our dreams incase of some predatory reality check.
So when the proverbial street lights came on, back the china would go and mine promptly into my back pack.
Our dreams, hers in the trunk by the foot of her sealy posturepedic and mine on my back, lived only in these obscure moments.
We'd assure ourselves that the fragility of our hopes couldn't exist without compromise within this reality.
These dreams were too good to be lived. Dare I say, couldn't be lived.
"One day soon. Maybe tomorrow" I'd tell myself as I soothed my dreams back into the never never land that was my back pack.
by Nandi Dlepu
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