drabbles

on dreaming

In the past, people dreamed.

They wrote stories filled with hope and light, telling others of a future with magical spaceships and talking robots where everyone was filled with joy and cheer.

They looked to the future, and their eyes were filled with anticipation and their hearts with the steadfast belief that the future held happiness.

Now, in that future that those of the past dreamed of, we dream as well.

We dream of the past, of supposedly simpler times, where people held no fear for the future.

We dream about our own worlds, ones of magic and beauty, filled to the brim with fantastical creatures and sparkling lands. We cut ourselves off from the real world, choosing to run away from it all.

We turn to fictional humans whom we picture wearing warm smiles and offering outstretched hands, clasping their hand and turning away from reality. We cry ourselves to sleep and imagine invisible hands wiping our tears away, knowing deep down those hands will always be invisible.

We romanticise everything little thing in our daily lives, from the smallest coffee shops to the largest universities. We seek joy in the present, for we are raised being told that we have no future.

We are told of the millions of people who destroy the planet we live on without remorse, of how the future of our race lies on our shoulders, of how parts of ourselves that we can't even control will lead to an eternity of being tortured.

We hear of faceless governments whose control has buried itself deep into our minds, of unavoidable apocalypses that will lead to our downfall and eventual extinction, of a ravaged world we will inherit when we grow up and become adults.

We listen to the words of our parents and teachers, adults who are supposed to protect and encourage. We listen, and we are afraid.

We see hate and bigotry rampant on the streets, of people being beaten for the colour of their skin or their romantic preferences and no one helping, of people blinding themselves to the truth and going about their day without sparing a thought for future generations, of people who know the effects of their actions but continue doing them anyway.

We read stories riddled with tragedy, and wonder if that will be us. That girl whose parents didn't acknowledge her choice, even after she stepped in front of a truck because she couldn't be who she truly was in this world. That boy who was beaten to death because of his race, and hundreds of others who survived but no longer feel safe walking on the street. That enby who was sent to conversion therapy until they stopped seeing the beauty in the world and held a knife to their own throat, eyes void of any warmth or emotion.

We are children—no matter our age, we are and will always be children. We live in a world much bigger than us, filled with evil and hate, and we fear. We look towards a future riddled with death and destruction, and we fear.

And most of all, we fear that we someday become like you, the ones before us who choose to suffocate the land we live on with your selfish and cowardly hearts.

We may give ourselves blind hope, we may be prepared to fight for a future, but that does not mean we do not fear. We are scared children, whose fists are raised in defiance with shaking arms. That is all.