My dreams are like leaves on the trees at the very end of autumn, fragile yet lingering in my mind like the sound of the rustling of dry leaves diffused into the atmosphere by cold wind .
My dreams are like rocks under the flow of a small stream in the woods. They are eroded by time , by the currents of the stream, yet never truly disappeared from one’s sight. They stayed there , silently without any desire to be fulfilled.
My dreams are like the sudden rains of the summer. They came quickly without any advance warning to theirs possessor; however, they would go just at fast, leaving behind an ethereal vestige of theirs existence and a very vague sense of nostalgia, or regret.
When autumn has gone , my dreams would follow its step. When the currents of that small stream tries to deny the existence of the rocks, my dreams ostensibly yield to that quest. When the summer takes all the rains away , my dreams also hide itself under forms of tiny water-drops and make an peremptory resistance to be seen.
And for my part , in the autumn ,let imagine myself as the old man searching in vain for the hints of the autumn of the old times, when his wish to be absorbed into the special setting of the fall was blindfolded by his puerile youth and perpetual presumptuousness . The dreams had always persisted in my heart, yet they were surpassed by the sophomoric attitude and inability to recognize what I had in front of me , to choose which roads to go among the numerous roads presented .
In the jungle , let imagine myself as one solitary nomad wandering around without any specific destination, wishing to remain at no place forever and consistently embarking on his seemingly interminable journey of life. He once stopped near that small stream , but wasn’t punctilious and empathetic enough to take notice of the rocks beneath the water surface. I searched for my dreams wherever I went, and asked whoever I met if they happened to know the place where I hid the box of my dreams . But I never knew that they , the dreams , had always been there; They stayed so small , so infinitesimal that I missed them and went on to search for something bigger , something I considered more worthy of attention.
They said: ” dreams make up one’s life .”
I said : ” regret makes up my life instead.” Sometimes I wonder when I will escape from that prison of excessive procrastination continuous complaints, when I will let the sun shine on that dark, timid corner where my dreams are carefully placed.