A Promise

You said you would write something. You made that promise. Are your promises all hollow words, carved out of dreams? There is a difference between ideals and reaching them.

You have to run fast to reach them. Because first of all, karma is chasing you from behind, and second of all, your dreams are running away from you. If you look back to when you were little, you can remember how your dreams were right there, with you. Your mind was so creative and beautiful that you were in perfect balance with your dreams. You lived, you loved and you laughed.

Then you were taught to fear. Fear school teachers that punish you if you get bad grades, that yell at you if you misbehave, that shun your imagination and tell you you need to learn by heart instead of learning with your heart. Fear strangers who might kidnap you if you’re walking alone down the street. Fear the homeless because they’re dirty, crazy drug addicts. Fear change, because we need to adapt to a situation and put our grip on it as if there is no other. Fear love, because love makes fools of men. Fear yourself, because you represent a potential danger to society. Fear your wildest dreams, for they are nothing but nonsensical, childish reveries.

You were taught to love fear and to fear love.

So how can I trust you when you say ‘you promise’ when you function through fear and distrust? How can we live with Machiavellian ethics and expect to flourish as Aristotle? How can we find God if we fear change and we fear the unknown? How can you besiege the fortress of your fears when you are on your knees for its King? How can you assuage your own pain if you are indifferent to the pain of others? Do you look in the mirror and see yourself? Or do you see the shadow of a child whose mind brought wonders to the world?

If only I knew how to write when I was 3 years old. I would’ve written the greatest book of all. If my love for the world wouldn’t have faded away along with my will to do anything to reach my freedom and my happiness, which now I only pretend to still have, I would’ve been able to guide the world with my Light. Instead, when I look in the mirror, into my eyes, I’m blinded by the glimmering light of the child that withered, drowned by hopelessness.

Now I’m left only with one hope. The hope that one day, that child will be reborn like a mighty Phoenix, flying over the world’s sorrows into the night’s visions of Utopia. A vision where he is running free, without the worries of a mean karma chasing him or of a dream running away from him.