What makes a dream a dream other than the defined split between reality and fiction. Where do we go wrong to hang up our ambitions as if they never were and call them something unreachable. Living in a world of practicality, things that are the most common are the most absurd to the human being. Sitting and waiting as the days pass at a job where a healthy living is made but a piece of the soul dies every hour from torment. Torment of the heart. Torment to not be able to be free and dance and laugh and love. All constricted in the weave of the American Dream. A place where no child is left behind and every family smiles in anticipation for a family dinner, when all along the children are lost in what they want and what they have and the parents are merely a shell of what they once were. Leaving children to believe that as you get older your soul dies. A strange lonely death.
But who's to say this can't be broken?
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