Are these dreams my own?
Or the ones I think I’m supposed to have?
The ones that are spelled out for me by others?
Predicted, expected.
These dreams aren’t real.
These dreams are thieves, stealing my time, my energy, my heart.
And there is no time left to listen to my heart-whispers, I worry.

When the air is still and the house is quiet and my space is full of just me,
I close my eyes.
I strain my ears.
I disrobe my heart of life and expectation.
And I wait.
Shouldn’t there be a sound, a voice?
A calling, a nudge?
Something?
Anything?

I know it is there, my dream.
And it is big.
(I just can’t see it).

One day (I hope) I will look back and say,
“How silly I was!
It was there all the time.”