I went outside this morning, because it is warm and I thought I would go for a run because my sunburn makes me peel, toss and turn. When I stepped outside there was a man who moved slowly up the street, and the man carried a large bag. He looked like he had seen better days. In fact, he looked like a ruin. He just passed me, and didn’t even look my way even though he must have seen me.
He never acknowledged my existence. It was as if I wasn’t there, as he pushed past me on the street, walking slowly toward whatever goal he had set for himself at this hour. Maybe he was just moving down to the town centre so that he could find a good spot to beg at.
Twenty or thirty years ago, when that man was my age, what dreams did he have? What kept him lying awake at night? When he closed his eyes, and thought about his future, what images popped into his mind? Interviews with magazines that wanted to hear his wisdom? A stage with thousands of people, and he in the centre of it? Just a quiet life doing something that he loved? What does he dream of now? Anything?
I came back in, and there on the “kitchen table” was my wallet. A commenter earlier called me a spoilt rich upper-class twat. I don’t deny that. My parents can afford to send me to another country, and have saved enough for me so that I get an allowance each month that lets me rent a flat. It gives me a fair upkeep. They’ll send that allowance throughout my university days, and it will pay the tuition fees for university without asking the government for help.
Maybe my dreams are wrong, misguided, and perhaps in ten years time I will have chosen an entirely different path than the single goal I’ve fixed on for so long, ever since that first glimmer of a dream about going to England and going to school here. Maybe.
The privileged trust-fund kid pretending to someone be special. Hah! The kid who can type these long sentences and pretend that he’s intelligent and knowing. The divide between me and the man is probably fairly thin.
Maybe his future is my future. Can you ever really tell? Perhaps I’ll end up like that man in the street, wandering around with unseeing eyes toward a destination that only I can see.
Maybe his dreams and hopes are as clear and vivid as mine are, here in my ivory castle with Mark. Why did I think that my dreams are better than his? What do I know of his dreams? Who am I kidding?