Dreams of a younger me. Lavish and extensive. Total in envelopment of being. The source of passion.

My young dreams look now as though they have been dragged through mud by a rabid cat. Some entirely left by the wayside at an early stage, others tussled with and played with, only delaying the inevitable abandonment, others brave-facing the scars as adapted and reshaped dreams. But the ship of Icarus weeps as this feeble walking corpses continue to push themselves forward to the future.

But the cracked glass of hindsight looks harshly on the apparent battleground. The dreams had to evolve in a hostile world. First sprouting into a kind and easy place, experience by a young and curious mind, the individual dreams were necessarily naïve as well, and so continual development and evolution was imperative to save the sense of dreaming in the kid.

Remove dreams; remove purpose; remove passion.

So evolve.

The world may not change for any real sense of the word within a generation. But us, ourselves, we change, we adapt, we learn.

And if we accept that as we mature, so too must our dreams, then perhaps we can mend the spyglass of the past, polish it back to a crystal glint, and be stronger in our passion for the future.