2-21-12
Fiction, maybe with tinges of fiction-y.
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The dreams were dusty, and that was her fault.
She'd neglected them, you see, and dreams don't do well when neglected.
Oh, she'd thought about them from time to time, wondered how she could have forgotten them, tucked away as they were on her library's shelves. They were dusty because she hadn't been able to continue seeing them mishandled by the world. Pages dog-eared and ripped, water stained, or, worse, scribbled on by people with the skill of an illiterate two-year-old. So she'd hid them and then tried to forget them.
She'd tried to pretend that the dreams didn't exist, trudged through what others said that she should do and be, ignoring the tugging on her mind and on her heart. Some days, the dreams and how they'd been treated hurt too much, even when she hoped beyond hope that one day, somehow, maybe even one of them would turn out to be real.
And now they were dusty.
Fortunately, the dreams didn't have to stay that way, a fact that she had been supremely glad to learn.
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This is sad and also lovely, Ashlee. I resonate with it.
ReplyDeleteThanks. Perhaps it's sad that it happened, but the last line shows there's hope. At least, in my mind the last line shows hope.
DeleteI LIKE THE IDEA OF DREAMS IN A LIBRARY
ReplyDeleteTHAT IS GOOD AND YES
Well, thank you, Robby. I just had this picture pop into my head and this is what came out. :D
DeleteI do so very like metaphors.
DeleteMe, too. Metaphors are handy, like finely honed tools. Similes are also great tools for writing and speaking and what not.
Delete