The fragile dream, the one that had shattered when life took over, haunted him constantly.
A dream of becoming a writer, of travelling to lands faraway, of finding inspiration in little known places.
For years, as he sat in a tiny cubicle in a big office, his desk cluttered with paper and post-its, the fragments of those dreams still haunted him. In meetings, in coffee shops, in malls, the remnants of the dream followed him.
At home, in the lonely evenings, the shadows chased him.
Till he could take it no longer.
He had to bring the dream back to life in order to escape its ghost.
People thought he was crazy.
Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.
He packed his bags and travelled to faraway lands, wrote stories, made friends, found inspiration.
No more ghosts.
He had oozed life into his dead dream.
And the dream, in turn, now, made him feel alive.