May be idealism knows no fate other than disillusionment and may be all dreams are no more than idols, sacred idols made of cold stone. Strong yet lifeless...dense yet hollow. May be all hopes are illusions and with time they fade away.

I have often wondered, what is worse: fading away of a hope or a dream breaking before its realization. Nonetheless the pain remains. No matter how realistic one might feign to be and how lasting the pretense may seem, reality dawns soon. And its bitterness runs deeper than any sense of survival.

It took me forever to recover from my first disillusionment. And soon after I dared to yearn again, deceit struck back. It was hard to hold faith already; almost unthinkable to imagine any better, almost forbidden to practice optimism. Yet I feel there is always room; room to realize worse, capacity to bear more and will to survive much else,

My will seemed fragile, I guarded it every moment. I wonder when, why or how,
I lifted the guard. And soon another dreamland was flooded. It came as a surprise yet I wonder how unpredictable it really was. Has it always not been the same?
Is the difference anymore than just time and name?