Before I realised it, I stopped dreaming. Dreams are flowery words, odd colours, new tastes. I quickly moved on to the end of it. The barrier of reality, and stopped thinking about it. A bright world with a perfect future buried itself deep in the landfill of childhood. Yet, I was still a child.

There is no meaning. Everything is mundane. The future is not a warm grassy field nor a cold winter night, but a void of emptiness. What graces my mind at the end of the day is a cement wall, a dead end. The music that plays passes time, and I move along with it. It is an endless trail that leads to nowhere, not back, not forth. I am walking on the same spot. That is my world without a dream.

There are no tears, because I am empty. I am devoid of the blooming flowers, and rid of the sharp stings. I am a hollow shell, filled only with plucked flowers and blunt knives. I can hear words, I can touch the rough surface of wood and I can see colours. I can smell the lingering scent of paint, and taste sweetness, bitterness. But I cannot feel. That is my world without a dream.

But I was shown how to dream. I sat in tranquil silence, and the wilted flowers within me stirred. I tried to mock them, because I could not see their colours. I could not smell their scent, I could not touch their petals. They budded.

One day, I saw the buds. I was intrigued. It pulled me in, and I closely watched as it flowered. Within warm embraces, it bloomed. I met it with a childlike glint in my eyes. They blossomed one after another along my body and in me. Wondrous. I felt purity once again.

Am I growing? Or have I returned to before I did? Colours graced the tip of my fingers, and empty pages sprung into a melodious dance. I let them run along, through my hands, through my eyes, through my body, through my mind, through my heart. And there, my spring has just begun.

May your spring bloom in you as well.