Only for the privileged few

Does she have any wishes, that naive soul turned into a sex slave, tortured by the ISIS? Or does he have any hopes, the one with dried tears, that orphan, who lost his family in Syria? Do they dream, do they even dare to dream?

I have come to a rather disturbing conclusion. Dreams are for the privileged few. It’s for you and I, who are guaranteed basic opportunities and human rights, the ones who can afford to read this and aren’t scared of impending doom – or surviving the aftermath, in complete gloom. Dreams are rather up the hierarchy of needs. Because if was I starving and shivering, I would not venture into the business of dreaming, letting my guard down.

And millions, millions just exist, without dreams or hopes. Like a zombie, just moving through the motions, withstanding one moment after the other, wondering if there is anyway out of the labyrinth. Do they dream, do they dream of travelling and finding something, or someone, they love? Do they still have that optimism left, or do circumstances engulf the last bit of hope that shimmered inside them?

Never have I ever felt so guilty of taking my “dreams” for granted. Because I am allowed to have them, I am lucky enough to be able to work towards them. Having dreams, in itself, is a dream come true. I plan to cherish the fact.


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