There was once a child who had no dreams. All he had were things he wanted to do, that he was certain he was going to do.
With hard work and enough effort, his friends and family convinced him they were wonderful dreams to strive for and that he was capable of accomplishing them.
He grew up to be a good and kind man, full of dreams which he kept alive and, in turn, they powered and refreshed him as he lived his life doing all the things he needed to do.
“Dreams are nice,” he wrote on his journal, on that last day, as his vision faded like a moon’s glow cautiously cowering behind a column of clouds. “I’m happy I never grew jaded and tired of them. Even if they never became real.
Or perhaps,” he now thought, words gone unwritten, “especially because of that.”
Emotions went unexpressed as his eyes went gray. Thoughts and impressions stayed unique and safe within his withering mind, never to be grasped or otherwise understood.
And a world went on vastly unaffected by the man, but particularly, by his dreams.