I used to carry a dream in my right pocket, tucked safely in the furthest corner. I never put anything else in this pocket for fear that by taking them out I would inadvertently pull out the dream and lose it, the way you lose coins and pieces of paper with phone numbers on them. The dream had a soft weight, comforting against my thigh, slightly warm. I would constantly put my hand in my pocket and brush my fingers against the dream, feel its contours, its shape, letting its warmth spread through my hand and nestle in my shoulder, my whole arm glowing with unlimited potential. At night I would put it under my pillow and listen to the soft song it murmured through the darkness, carrying me through my sleep, until the morning light shone through the diaphanous drapes on my bedroom window. Then back in the pocket, the dream would go, and there it would stay, with me always, the most precious of all cargo I had ever had in my possession.
Until one day, after days, maybe years of carrying it, of knowing its weight, its shape, its very essence, I could not recognize it anymore. The language it spoke to me at night was foreign, the glowing warmth that used to fill my arm was icy cold. It had turned against me, or I had turned against it, but it was strange and alien to my heart. I thought I could learn to know it again, learn to love it again. I still loved it, in fact. Still wanted it, but could not reach it anymore. It was slippery like water on ice, and my fingers were buttery and the dream would evade my desperate grasp. So, one day, I slowly put my hand in my right pocket, pulled out the dream, and in one swift motion, I let it fall in the gutter. And I walked away.
