Dreams.

A little short story I guess...


If anyone had been present, they would have seen her in that empty bedroom, with the dull, faded light coming in from the window. It outlined her small figure curled up on the bed directly beneath it. Blonde hair fell down her back till it just barely touched the blanket, and her knees were tucked up underneath her chin. The light from the window, that soft, gloomy light that always seems to accompany a storm, was focused solely on her eyes. They sparkled and shone with fresh tears.

“Maybe I dream too much,” she whispered. Her eyes wandered across the world outside the window; to trees, to lawns, to the garden. Her flowers, her precious sunflowers.  “I’ve always dreamed a little too big, a little too far, and a little too much.”

She pressed her nose up against the glass, it was cold from the rain. Her blue eyes closed—she breathed deeply. That persistent ache inside her chest would not leave. It wasn’t sharp, not a surprise. It was dull, continuous—it was expected. Didn’t they always leave her feeling like this?

The disappointment clung to her. She shivered. It gripped her fragile heart and refused to release it. The tears flowed down her cheeks again, silently begging her to move on. Let go. Forgive and forget, just one more time. The more the tears came, the tighter the pain clung to her. She wanted to scream out in agony, to curse them for this. She stopped herself. How could she? Even she could not pretend that they knew any better.

“But they should know better,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “They should know how I’ve felt for all these years. They should care.”

They did care. But this was how they had always been with her—distant, forgetful, and hurried. What was it about her that had always scared them away?

Perhaps it was her dreams that scared them; those poor souls fettered down with petty disputes and countless worries. Because that was who she was, a dreamer. A thinker. A world changer. Is that what had always kept them from listening? From understanding? From staying? They would never stay. If she was not suffering, if by some stroke of bad luck she wanted to talk about dreams, she was not worth their time.

Some people are made up of their struggles, but she was not. She was made up of her dreams, her deepest thoughts, her passions, and her endeavors. They did not have time for childish things like that, so they did not know her. Perhaps that was what cut deepest of all. Maybe they cared, she admitted to herself that many times they did try, but it made no difference. For as long as she could remember, they had not known her.

Again she thought, “Maybe I dream too much.”