I miss the days when my life felt like a simple twilight dream, where joy came effortlessly from the small, beautiful simplicities of life. Back then, the world felt slower, softer, untouched by the need to please or impress. The days were not shadowed by expectations, nor were they governed by the ticking of a clock that measured success by the standards of ambition. Life was just a quiet rhythm of moments—moments that held their own magic, unsullied by the weight of goals yet to be achieved.
Those days seem distant now, almost like the fading hues of a sunset, just out of reach, but still visible in my mind’s eye. I can still remember what it felt like to exist without constantly wondering if I was enough. Enough for the world, for others, for myself. There was a time when my heart was light, when the sound of laughter or the sight of the first light of dawn was enough to fill me with joy. Now, those feelings are buried beneath the ever-growing layers of expectations—expectations that I have come to carry as if they were mine all along, but in truth, they were imposed. Imposed by a world that measures worth by ambition and success, a world that tells us that if we are not striving toward something, we are nothing.
How many of us have bought into that belief? How many of us have allowed ourselves to become consumed by a vision of the future, always chasing, never fully arriving? We walk this path, constantly busy, heads down, eyes focused on the horizon, hoping to achieve something great. But in doing so, we often lose sight of the beauty that surrounds us in the here and now. I know I have. There are days when I wonder what could have been if I had not been caught in the race to become more. What if I had allowed myself to just be, to bask in the joy of the present moment without the burden of ambition weighing down my every step?
And yet, I know that ambition is not inherently bad. It can push us to grow, to explore the far reaches of our potential. But the defeat that comes with unmet expectations—it is that which lingers. The defeats that are not even memories, but rather dreams that never came to be. Creations of the mind, shaped by the desire to meet a standard I was never sure I wanted to follow in the first place. A world that demands we run ever faster, ever farther, without pause to catch our breath. And in that running, it is so easy to lose ourselves.
I wonder, as I often do in these quiet moments, what it would take for the world to slow down again. I wonder, maybe, just maybe, if God loved me enough, He would answer the prayers I once thought myself worthy of. There was a time when I believed in the power of those prayers, believed that if I was good enough, if I followed the right path, those prayers would be answered. Maybe I thought that by being good, I could earn my dreams. I could dream a life worthy of being lived, worthy of a love so strong that I would lose myself in it, utterly and completely.
But could it be that I am only imagining such a life? Could it be that this wish I hold so dearly will never be fulfilled? It’s a thought that stirs deep within me—an uncomfortable thought that breeds envy, anger, and desire all at once. It’s a wish so tightly wrapped in expectation that it can’t help but entangle me in its snare. Maybe that’s the real curse, this binding of the mind to a vision that may never manifest. A vision of love, of success, of peace—each one a figment of a reality I may never touch.
I wonder if I am alone in this, or if others, too, find themselves lost in their own visions. We live in a world that tells us to dream big, to wish for more, to strive endlessly. But at what cost? How many of us are caught in this endless loop of wanting and waiting? I swim in this loop, constantly moving, constantly hoping. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I wish hard enough, if I pray hard enough, it will come to pass. That one day, my dreams will take form, will become real, will become my life.
But for now, I exist in the in-between—a place where hope dances with doubt, where I am neither here nor there. I dance in this pretense, pretending that I am content, that the loop of maybes is enough to sustain me. Maybe, just maybe, one day, I will wake from this twilight dream, and it will no longer be a dream but a reality. Perhaps, one day, I will step out of the shadows and into the light of a dream fulfilled.
Until then, I wait. I wait in this space of endless maybes, caught between what is and what could be. I wait, because what else can I do? There are moments when the weight of waiting feels unbearable, moments when I want to give in, to let go of the dream entirely. But something keeps me holding on—perhaps it is the hope that lives deep inside of me, the hope that whispers that maybe, just maybe, this dream is worth waiting for.
And so, I wait. I wait with the quiet understanding that dreams take time, that they do not always manifest when we want them to, but in their own time, in their own way. I wait with the knowledge that life is not about rushing toward a destination, but about the journey we take to get there. Perhaps that is the true meaning of this twilight dream—to teach me to slow down, to be present, to find joy in the journey itself.
Because maybe, just maybe, the journey is the dream. And that, in itself, is enough.
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