Dreams are strange and elusive things, but not for everyone, I’ve found.
Some are
born with them, some seem to find them lying around.
Some, like
bats, find them when they listen to what they hear.
Others
never find them. I might be one of them, I fear.
Without a
dream, I floundered; I needed other, wiser people to steer
The ship of
my life as it floated on its uncertain career
Down the
raging, rapid river of cruel chance, kismet, causality and confusion.
I was raised
by Healers (themselves born with dreams) with this illusion:
I longed to
be a Healer with every fibre of my heart.
I knew (I
was told) what I wanted from the very start.
My faith in
the Holy would never waver, never falter, never fail.
They were wrong. For whoever reads this, this is my sorry tale.
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