Break they might, but die they cannot

Hope, like energy, cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred. At any moment, on any day, someone is always hoping for something. It's almost like there is a glow. A glow of hope that moves from person to person. Like a jar of fireflies being released, flying through people's souls, giving the black as pitch night a flame, a glow. How it moves? We can only guess. Maybe it's transferred through touch, like a contagious disease, only this disease benefits us. Hope and dreams are alike, aren't they? You need hope to dream. You need dreams to hope. Dreams can die, just like hope can burn out, but they can never be completely destroyed. There are quite a few different types of dreams. There are the dreams you dream while you are asleep, the ones of you soaring over your enemies, flying through the palest cloud, safe from your fears. You are at peace, you feel comfort, as you don't know it is all illusive. There are the dreams in which you are aware that you are dreaming. You have the power to control what happens. It seems fantastic, but it takes away all of the magic, all of the adventure, all of the uncertainty and excitement. Doesn't it? I like to dream. Mother says I like to create my own world. I assume that's the reason she gave me this name. As a child I loved to paint and draw. Not necessarily to be good at it, but to make a mess, to be creative and to use my imagination. I loved exploring my home, looking for secret doorways leading to hidden worlds. I loved wondering if the earth could grow, if it could get bigger and bigger until it hit the sun. I wondered if the people on that side of the earth would just be really hot, or if they would die instantly. But most of all, I loved making up stories. No, not lying… Well, making up stories is simply writing a series of words that are untrue, so I suppose it is a little like lying. But I loved making up the kind about little smart girls getting lost out at sea, little brave boys saving grown cowardly men, but for the most part, I made up stories about myself. Writing heaps of pages describing with astounding detail how I found a lost treasure chest, single handedly defeated a flood of hooded thieves, befriended a sea monster, or found a universe where it is forever night. But I grew older. The world showed me I needed to let go of those childish tales, those childish dreams, in order to survive. And so I let go of my dreams. I let go of the one drop of joy in this fountain of despair. I became a floater. A person with no particular destination. A person with no particular goals. A person endlessly walking in circles. I thought it was expected. I thought it was just what people do when they reach a certain age; throw away all that matters to them. But you cannot blame me. I tried. I failed. I moved on. At some point, everybody moves on. The people in my life moved on. Leaving me in a classroom full of unfamiliar faces, a dull atmosphere, no vitality, and absolutely no inspiration. That was the factor. The wind that blew out my flame. It was near impossible for me to make friends. I pondered this. Wasn't i likable? I later discovered that the reason i wasn't, was that I dreamed. I dreamed of petals and bees. I dreamed of pristine lakes and clear, deep and serene oceans. And I dreamed of greatness. Of one day seeing my face on every billboard, on every street. Of hearing my name on every radio, on every station. Of feeling important, wanted, needed. I was told, dreams don't get you anywhere. They are just a waste of time. You must do what you're told, when you're told to do it. You must remain silent and nod your head. You must wake up. Stop dreaming. Forget your entity. Be who they want you to be. Mankind knows they can't please everyone, but that doesn't stop them from trying. From having that spark of hope, that wild dream, that they can be the difference, the exception. But try as you might, you cannot escape yourself. You are always there. There when the sun shines through your curtains in the morning, blinding you. There when you lay your head down to rest, trying to find the congenial spot in your mattress. There, when you sip your tea, the feeling of pleasant warmth spreading across your skin. Constantly, eternally, perpetually, invariably there. And you should be proud. I should be proud. I am proud. For I am the diamond in the darkest cave. I am the stream in the driest wasteland. I am the gentle rain in a drought. I am the sparkle of light in a blackout. And I dream. I dream of acts of bravery from the most unlikely places. I dream of shining, shining like a jar of fireflies, being released into the pitch black night. I dream of dreaming. Dreaming more than anyone has ever dreamed before. I dream of turning my dreams into reality. It is not enough to dream, to watch. I dream of taking action. I am who I am. I am who you know me as. I am Alora. I am the dreamer.

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