buried dreams

I had a dream
of becoming a dancer,
a body fluent in rhythm,
speaking in leaps and silence,
where passion burned in every movement
and the stage knew my name.

I had a dream
of holding a violin beneath my chin,
twelve-year-old me, wide-eyed and glowing,
as cool theatre air kissed my skin.
Was it dopamine, or adrenaline
that rush in my veins
as my fingers brushed the strings,
as I drew the bow
steady, certain
and made something beautiful breathe?

But somewhere between twelve and thirteen,
That dream grew quiet.
There was no one to fan its flame,
no hands to guide it,
so it dimmed…

and then it died.

I had a dream
to dance again,
to leap across a stage lit with fire and applause,
to feel sweat trace the curve of my jaw
as I took my final bow.
Sixteen-year-old me
would have been proud.

I had a dream
to become a writer,
to spill worlds onto paper,
to make imagination visible.
But even that dream
began to slip through my fingers,
like all the others.

Why do my dreams keep fading?
Why does my creativity feel like it’s dying?

No.
Not this one.
This one will not be buried.
Because before the dancer,
before the violin,
there was a little girl
seven years old,
with pen in hand
and a universe in her mind.
She didn’t wait for permission.
She didn’t need an audience.
She just created.
scribbling life into empty pages,
watching her thoughts
take form, take breath.

I remember her.
And I refuse to let her disappear.
So I will write.
Even when the passion flickers.
Even when doubt is loud.
Eighteen-year-old me
will not give up.
Because this dream
this one

is still alive.