Years, years, years ago I wanted.
But my dreams seemed utterly impossible, hopeless, futile. Because no matter what I did, everything stayed so out of reach.
"I will die alone, it will never work, I'll never be... " I'd pronounce to someone trained to share a room with despair and anger.
"You can't write the end of the book until you get there," he'd answer.
Somehow, dreams slowly became my daily life. I could see impossible wasn't.
I mean some things were. I would never get a chance to be James Bond. I suspect many people got disappointed by that dashed hope.
But the dream of a home, of a love, of a family, of an art, of a word, of a poem, of a story, of an eye, of some peace, of powerful prayer, of good food, of better health... of hands no longer holding a cigarette...
I couldn't see them at the beginning. I just had to look and not see the end.
