Dreams

14.2.07

Dreams...inconsistent angel things, voices bred with star-laced wings. But it’s so hard to make them fly, fly, fly. –Sixpence None the Richer

Recently, I’ve seen the inner depth of some Hondurans. Those depths are the same as anyone’s: wondering if our lives can make a difference in the realm of the whole world, if we can actually pursue our dreams, if we have a talent for the dreams we plan on pursuing, etc.

Befriending other writers has me typing and penciling a lot more these days. I’m starting to look at people like I did while I was in fiction class in college. As I half-heartedly listen to their stories, I pick out their distinguished features that would make for a good description:
“Hola viejo,” I say to him. His eyes brighten and as he smiles, all the wrinkles come out from hiding on his sun-damaged brownish red forehead. “Hola chiquita,” he replies back, his long speckled grey beard moves steadily with his words. If you watch and listen closely, the tone of his voice, the rhythm of his words, and the movement of his beard all correspond to each other like blinking stars in the sky speaking a language only they can understand.

It’s fascinating to hang out with well-educated natives. They have so much to say, and so much to offer about their opinions on life, God, politics, and literature. We stay up all night some weekends talking about these things. The theme seems to always go back to dreams. These guys are full of potential. Full of intelligence. Full of talent. But though they have the desire to travel, they don’t have the means to do so.

“If by me dying, God gave Gabriel Garcia Marquez 100 more years to live, I’d die right now,” says one of them. And it makes me think. I’ve traveled so much, and they haven’t at all. The analyzing and writing that comes out of me from my trips...I imagine there would be 20 times as much from them.

Would I give something up so they could experience just a taste of what I have? Christ said that no greater love has a man for his friend than to lay down his life for him. Love is sacrifice, and I see this over and over again in life. What one man sacrifices for, another takes for granted. Life is certainly something to ponder.

“Have you ever lived any of your dreams?” I ask.
“Not one,” he replies, “Have you?”
“In a way, I am living one right now.”

“How do I translate ‘take it for granted,’” I think, as we watch the sun rise above the fog over the bluish-purple mountains, giving it a glow so strong, it’s hard to see the actual sun.