Vignettes and Prose

My Garden of Dreams

Fulfillment and Destiny

Your absence leaves my heart in an enclosed, white room.

It pumps rich pulsations of blood as I look at the scattered items on the wall. Goals, like leaves of paper stick to the sterile wall

“Do this…”

“Do that…”

Each item betrays a sense of agency. My fingertips trace the barest outline of one of the goals on the wall.

Without my beloved by my side, these tiny thoughts and achievements are laid bare. Do they mean anything? Will I feel some sense of completeness if I fulfill my self-imposed path?

I know that something within me is churning and twisting. I crave the sacred time to myself, but I am not without the shadows of those who have passed.

It’s as if something and everything within me is embroiled in a soup of destiny and fate. I am intertwined in the “everything” of it all.

The smallest kernel of myself is still that little girl who hated herself so much that she cast her dreams to the wind.

That little girl sacrificed herself on the pyre of other’s arbitrary wishes, and all to her detriment.

I cannot be fooled by those shallow voices anymore.

I am not entitled or privileged because I have dreams. In fact, my dreams are my dearest possessions, though they are nothing more than figments of my…