The_Gobo

We all have hopes and dreams. Some of those we even get to keep. Though, only a few of even those survive through the years. In some, they are kept alive in musings. They are written in our books, drawn in our paintings and animations. Released in our songs and posed in our dances.
Others cling yet all the tighter and those dreams become a terror, and the dreams a haunt. The mind becomes a ruin and... it finds a way out. When we speak out against love, carve our bodies and all manner of awful thing.
It is not for these dreams and hopes that we live. But by them, wonders become neighbors. Sights become vistas beyond words, songs become festivals of joy and mirth. Letting go of something can bring it oh so very close. So much closer to the heart than our claws could ever grip. A wearied soul is made by thus; that one fight the how of Life Himself.

o3o