Of Dreams and Rejections

One might wish for it to be a withering candlelight, the warmth slow to fade; cruelly, broken dreams resemble powdered diamonds, a glimmer that once
was but no more, adjudged everlasting in life, yet surprisingly easy to crush. The sharp pain of rejection, the blunt sense of inadequacy, lingering on, bruises, black and blue,
dull, throbbing.

Delusions of grandeur, lofty dreams. Is there even any difference? One might well wonder. The fine line between the two no longer represents definiteness, let alone adequacy,

and so we trick ourselves into believing in the belief of realization, a dream. And with a dream comes hope. For months and months, the days shorter and longer,
the pressure steadily increasing, insides twisted into möbius strips of unending pressure, angst, fatigue, uncertainty. And then the notification, denial, fury, acceptance, DABDA, all five stages.

Perhaps it is not the rejection that hurts so much, but rather the feeling of having to let go of a consumption, a Stockholm Syndrome not of abduction by people but by dreams, dreams
that we have constructed for ourselves, like little children building sandcastles. And yet we must not be slow to dream, for to not is uninspired inactivity!

And so I must console myself, today, that I tried; to try is to dare, and to dare is to dream. And a diamond can only be found in the rough if one never stops digging.