My life's story

I wrote this two years ago. Since then, we have a new addition to our family - my little shihtzu, Chewy and of course, my mum is no longer 47. I did not think to add some years to her age because 47 sounds better than 49 as is her current age.

*updated version
I'm ignorant and indolent,
And everyone knows that,
My mum claims she's my sister,
Even if she's 47,
My dad loves rocks and stones,
to the point of obsession,
My brother studies from day to night,
And comes home looking like a Zombie,
My dog's name is Rocky,
because my dad loves rocks,
My other dog is Joy,
as in Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.
Now there's Chewy,
part Chewbacca, part ewok,
whom we all adore.

Why Mr. Cupid?

Cupid is ubiquitous. I see his usual red rosy cheeks, his mischievous blue eyes and the whitewashed toga that he seems to favor. He carries a gilded gold bow with detailed carvings that chronicle the fall of Troy and a quiver of arrows strapped to the small of his back. His natural curly blonde hair, iridescent even under a sunless sky, is one of his more sparkling features yet.

I love it when he smiles at his charges. He seems almost sublime then. When he looks at me, however, his expression changes. I suspect he does not like what he sees. Is my level of stubbornness etched so distinctively around my face that he should bequeath his not so favourable look; or is it because that there's no hope for me and it is only my personal interpretation that his countenance indicates distaste than the sympathy it is and I so detests.

Entry ? - August 2012

Some say I am fussy when it comes to matters of men and women but I would like to think myself merely conscientious. I’m still whole of mind and as a girl of 21, I am inclined to postulate that my belief comes not from childish arrogance but a mature frame of mind.

Standards exist and are made so that one can measure oneself and those around accordingly. Oftentimes, I come across as snobbish based on my assumed single status whilst others would speculate on the absence of my personality.

I’m proud to say that none of the above would account for my reclusive nature and love for the solitary. It would be a lie, however, to say that I do not yearn for companionship as the world is made that way. I am no different from the damsels around me. I know love when I see one and I envy those who have it, though I am not given to fits of impulsiveness and the need to get a lover for appearance sake is something I’ll never resort to. I have no wish to rush into an undesirable relationship that would only bring heartbreak and pain. I would rather wait for my better half (how corny can I be?). This I speak not from prideful vanity but truthfulness and yearning of the soul.

I wish there was a sign that points to my nebulous future but where would the fun be if my future has already been laid out. Living would no longer be a challenge but a definite bore.

The short story below describes the aforementioned paragraph and summarizes my thoughts:

Once upon a time, there was a young, lovely girl with absinthe eyes and fiery red hair. The girl was crying by her mother’s gravestone when a scraggly old woman approached her.“ Oh, you poor thin’. A pretty lass like you should not look like death itself.”

The girl quickly dried her tears with the sleeve of her gown and silently stared at the apparition before her whom she assumed wanted to give comfort. She found herself softening a little, if not entirely. “ I thank you for your kind words but may I ask who you are and what you seek in so desolate a place?”

The old woman who stood paces away, hobbled closer on her wooden cane and smiled at the girl who has not moved an inch from her mother’s grave. “ I am called witch, healer and sage amongst other things but I go by the name of Wise Woman of Westwood.” The girl gave no sign of recognition, so the wise woman pressed on, “I am here to bestow you a gift of happiness and should you choose to accept it the choice is yours and yours alone.”

At that, the girl stood up and look into the intense gray of the wise woman’s eyes. “ What is it in for you as it is for me?” She folded her hand in front her and continued to appraise the lone figure.

“It is not in my place to tell you of the intricate nature of the universe but in time, you will unravel these mysteries. Even though I do not have the gift of foretelling, I am fortunately prescient enough to know that your road to happiness is a thorny and long one.” The girl flinched at her fortune being told by this wise woman but urged her to continue.

“I can lift your sorrows and give you happiness here and now but be forewarned that whatever given must be returned. You will lead a blissful and youthful life; and suffer when you become a gray-haired woman.” The wise woman paused to let her words sink in. “ So, have your pick. Would you care to go through another series of pain and heartbreak only to have your happily ever after towards the end of your life or enjoy the happiness I give you while you can and suffer in the aftermath.”

Everything was quiet save for her own uneven breathing and the wise woman’s. “ I choose,” she licked her cracked lips, “to pretend that this conversation never happened. I must decline your generous offer, even if this might be the grief that is speaking but I would rather create my own destiny than to leave it to the whims of fate and magic.” For a moment or two, the girl thought that she had offended the wise one. She studied the old woman but the woman’s expression did not alter.

When all of a sudden the wise woman burst out into gales of laughter, startling her. “So be it. I wish you a merry good luck then, for you’ll never see me again!” The old woman disappeared as instantaneous as she had appeared and the girl was once again alone.

As she was walking down the winding gravel path to the graveyard gates, she heard a soft whisper in the air. “ Let’s see you don’t regret it.” That was the last and only trace that the wise woman ever existed.

The journey a man has to undertake before proposing to his loved one

The first thing you have to do before proposing to your partner is to ruminate. You should take some time off to understand your feelings; whether they are still as strong and true as the first time you met her. This is of utmost importance because you must be able to comprehend how big of an issue this is. For example, the woman you are going to marry will become fat one day. Will you still love her even if she becomes all wrinkly and fat?

The next thing you have to do is to know who your future in laws are. If you have not fully ingratiate yourself thus far, now is the time to do it. Have a friendly talk with them. Talk to them about useless issues such as the weather and nothing about the engagement. If they do so much as to annoy your soul, run. You still have time to save your life because once your marry a woman, you are also marrying her family.

If all is good, proceed to the next step. Talk to your future best man; as of the moment, your buddy or brother or however you call it. Getting married is a huge thing; and you're bound to freak out every now and then. Consult your buddy if this should happen. If he gives you good advise such as 'you're just nervous because you're going to marry the woman you love,' - appoint him as your best man. If he says things that makes you ten times the nervous wreck you already are – bash him up but still keep him around because he still has his uses.

Next, run to a store and get her an engagement ring. Especially one that is sparkly enough to make her go ga-ga. One of the similarities between women and fish is that they both love shiny objects. So, use this as reference when choosing her ring. Above all, just make sure that the ring fits her finger or everything will be for naught.

After doing the aforementioned and if you are still sure of yourself, plan a romantic getaway that would blow her mind. Take her to the movies or do anything that she likes. End your day by taking her to a fancy fine-dining restaurant that has exquisite food, a romantic ambiance and beautiful music wafting in the air. If it is possible – though everything is possible if you have money – have the pianist play her favourite song on the piano. Even the most grouchy woman has a favourite song.

Last but not least, when all your hopes and dreams are about to become reality, do your thing. Serenade her, recite some romantic poems by Pablo Neruda. As your grande finale, get down on your knees and propose to her. By following these steps, you're sure to become an engaged man by the end of the day. That is, if all goes well and if the woman you're proposing to loves you as much as you her.

My understanding of honor

Honor or honoris in Latin is an abstract concept that contains fairness, respect and integrity. A person is labeled honorable when he or she adheres to the above qualities or if that particular individual follows a specific code of honor.

The first thing that comes to mind in regards to honor is Hector of Troy. Hector, not surprising, is also named one of the nine worthies together with Alexander the Great and King Arthur. Nine worthies or nine valiants consist of nine very extraordinary individuals. A title given solely to personages who embodies gallantry and courage. These individuals may not be a prince by birth but they are all indubitably 'princes' in their own right despite their circumstances.

Hector is the first-born son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba; and husband to the red-headed Andromache. He is also the strongest man in Troy. Given his position as heir apparent to the throne and a favourite of the king and queen, he is still one of the most down to earth man according to Homer's Illiad or any other sources. Whilst Achilles fights for honor and his reputation, Hector fights for the people of Troy. He is not regarded as one of the Nine worthies only because of his noble and courtly manner but in part of his peace-loving nature and overall character. He is a veritable paragon of heroism and modesty.

It is easy to define honor in bygone stories as opposed to the difficult task of applying honor to modern day folks. The world has certainly evolved into a technological-governed one. People have become more individualistic and materialistic; and that such honorable and honest to do attitude are long-forgotten.

A code of honor differs from a legal code. It is usually measured through a person's conscience rather than the eyes of a certain community. How often do we see such practiced code of honor?

As much as I hate to admit it, it is considerably easier to relate honor to myth and fiction instead of associating it to people of today's generation.

The Chatelaine - Part 3

“In the beginning, there was nothing but an inhabited piece of land created by the whim of Lyra - the Goddess of Evermore. This was further enhanced with the addition of two different entities called the Humans and the Forest Dwellers to the equation. Whilst intrigued by her new toy, Lyra was also indifferent to it and was convinced that the land called Filra should be left to fend off on its own.

For thousands of years, both races co-existed and everyone was happy with the concord they saw. Until that very day, when fear clawed their hearts and soul ensnared by envy. Afraid of the Forest Dweller's superior ability, the Human race chose to massacre every single one of them...”

Some thought that the extermination of the Forest Dwellers was unjustified but Minerva knew and understood it all. No doubt, the Forest Dwellers are gentle by nature and a friendly bunch. But when tempted by the whispering evil forces of the land; they become an unmitigated terror.

Lured into the dark night, Minerva stood concealed in the hide of the gorse bushes. She had been stalking the two men, or as she puts it trailing them since they left the protective barrier of Lycon village. According to her parchments, Lycon is said to be one of the most well-received countries in all the land. Rich, in resources; and vestiges of the past, it had caught the attentions of intrepid travelers and ardent merchants alike.

The sun had long ago descended below the horizon and the two men she observed were fast asleep by the warmth of the fire. Minerva was wondering why had she tried so hard to hide. For what purpose? She followed them, only because she had wanted to talk to them. But after a few hours of relentless pursuit and almost completely losing sight of them a couple of times, she realized that she did not know how to approach them. So the battle of hiding ensued – with her on the losing side.

“A definite idiot, I tell you,” Shane said, emphasizing on the idiot.
Christian and Shane were both cognizant of the fact that they were being followed by a not-so-skilled stalker or whatever you call it; since the start of their tedious journey. Recognizing that there was no ill intent from her, they just let her be. And here they are; sleeping under the blanket of irradiating stars, with a stalker at their backs.

“Well, from the looks of it, she can't be more than 16,” Christian said, just loud enough for Shane to hear, for his bedroll was laid a couple of meters away from his.
“What's that got to do with her age?”
“Everything.”
Speechless, Shane just threw Christian a disdainful look.
“What?” Christian replied.
“Has anyone ever told you that you're gross?”
“Not since my little meeting with the old man yesterday,” Christian grinned.

Heartache

It hurts.

These feelings,
I do not want them,
I do not need them,
I've never asked for any of this,
So how did it happen?

The monotonous days continues,
The perpetual pain ensues,
This neverending cycle
remains the same.

Was the sky this bleak,
Was the thunderous sounds ever this loud,
Was my heart this fragile,
Like a dew in the night,
I sparkle only
when the fleeting light shines my way.

I shut my mind to such thoughts,
I shield my heart from the pain,
I turned my back on the memories,
These useless emotions,
I should have tossed them aside
ages ago.

The Chatelaine - Part 2

Christian was crossed throughout the journey. He wondered why the old man would delegate such a trifling mission to him.

“Remember, Christian. This is not an individual mission. Dammit. I want you in a group,” said the guild master or better known as the old man.
Christian looked about the bare room. It consisted of nothing but a huge oak table and matching chairs of eight that surrounded it. Meetings were usually held in here, seats customarily given to the elders and higher ranked. Distracted, he had not heard single word.
“Are you listening to me, Christian?” The old man slammed his fist on the table in a fit of exasperation. “I'm not joking. This is an important assignment.”
“Important? What is? All we have to do is to retrieve some unknown girl from some god forsaken mansion, right?” Christian raised an eyebrow. “Who's the chit anyway?”
“Get the girl and then I'll tell you, you lazy ass.”
“Why do I have the oddest feeling that I'm being cheated?” Christian said and left the room.
Now who to pick?
Christian was sitting before a roaring fire in the lounge, sipping a mug of ale. The huge notice board beside the door was almost empty now; save for his newly posted recruitment and some remaining ones. Christian had joined the guild years ago, and was placed under the tutelage of the old man. They were a mercenary guild called the “Graveyard” - a highly repellant name and hired to do miscellaneous work – regardless of how dirty it was. From assassination to soldiering to a bodyguard of a blasted noble. They weren't given the appellation 'greedy mercenaries' for nothing. Anything, as long as the gold was good.
“Hey you.”
Christian looked up from the hearth to the man standing beside him. “Can I help you?”
“You looking for a comrade?”
Christian eyed the young man carefully. He looked like he was in his late teens. Brown sandy hair, defiant blue eyes and a slim frame. What surprised Christian most was the hammer he was nonchalantly carrying. As if it weighed nothing but a piece of turkey leg to him. Amazing.
“Yes, I think you'd do,” he extended a hand. “The name's Christian by the way.”
The young man took his hand graciously into a shake. “Shane.”

“You're from Illnois, huh?” said Christian, as they walked through the town. The place was teeming with merchants, vendors, dancers and raconteurs.
“Yes.”
Yes? That's all you have to say? Assuming that he does not want to talk about his past, Christian quickly flitted to another topic. “So, what made you join a guild?”
Shane stared at Christian as if he was the dumbest being on earth. What else? “Food, money, a bunk to rest. Just like the lot of you.”
“I see.”
“How about you then?” Shane looked at him inquiringly.
“I was taken in by the master years ago, being homeless and all. And here I am. A veteran mercenary with a stomach for ale and an irritating disposition that could send even the master to an early grave.”
Having recognized his favourite fruit vendor, Christian stopped and bought two apples for two copper pieces. One of it, he stuffed into his mouth and the other he tossed to Shane. For some very odd reason, Christian found Shane's expression to be unnerving – a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“Listen, you better not be jumping to conclusions. I'm only 23 and clearly, not old enough to be your dad.”
“What? How did you know what I was thinking of?” Shane replied, as if his mind violated.
“Because everything's written blatantly on your face.”
They bought dried meats, crackers and a bag of potatoes for the journey and their canteens were re-filled with fresh water from a rivulet just right out the village's boundary. The old man wanted a party and he had gotten one but Christian was pretty sure that the old man's idea of a group comprises of more than two person. But what can he do about it? No one else had signed up for this excursion, besides Shane.
“Who's this girl we're about to break out?” Shane asked.
They were travelling northward from the village, the only path to the abandoned mansion and the much said enchanted forest. It has been foretold long ago that forests dwellers have no kindness for human beings and once a mortal enters the forest, they will never see the light of the day again.
“Heck, I too wish I knew the answer to that. That geezer refused to disclose anything about her.”
“Not even her age?”
“Nope. Not even that.”
Dusk was settling below the horizon, leaving streaks of orange across the firmament. There was nothing but tufts of grass, acacia and bushes on either side of the road. Still no sign of any sheer wood forest.
“Guess we'll camp out here for the night. I'm sure you're pooped after walking several hours without a break.” said Christian as he dumped his knapsack to the ground.
“Yeah. I guess you're right.”
“And besides, we're much safer sleeping rather than walking in this pitch blackness,” Christian picked some dried bough and set about the fire.
“Why is that?”
“I guess you didn't know? This place isn't entirely deserted and you can thank the bandits for that.”

Soar

Fly,
through the vasts firmament,
Into the bright morning star.

Spread your wings,
And let the breeze envelop your being.

Forget yourself.
Think of nothing,
Rid yourself of the burden,
To the fetching calmness
of your surrounding.

Enchantment

Moonlight in my eyes,
Distant stars swimming in perpetual darkness,
Night's dew continues to shimmer,
Incandescent glow touches my skin.

Owls' hooting unfailingly echoes throughout the forest,
The frolicking of perennial being captures me.

I whirled like a dervish,
Dancing against the backdrop of eternal bliss.

Gone

From the rolling hill,
She saw you,
Sitting on the grass,
Staring back at her.

The distance between you and her,
Was unbridgeable,
The stark opened gap,
Was a sign.

She turned her back,
And you looked through her,
But what would you do,
If you heard her silent cries.

You left your comfort zone,
And ran after her,
You climbed the rolling hill,
But she was already gone.

Now when you look down,
You see her there.
She's so near,
Yet why can't you touch her?

Caged

I sniffed the pungent essence of life,
Regarding it with distaste and curiosity.
Random thoughts circle my overused brains,
Driving me nuts with doubled intensity,

Looking back was never hard,
For the numbness of the past had long subsided.

So why?
Do I still feel,
Its poision clutches extending,
Inflicting pain,
On my already scarred heart.

In my mind's eye,
I have created an unreachable place,
Barred with wrought-iron,
Encircled by an invisible barrier,
In hopes to prevent intruders,

And myself from leaving its premises.

Through the limbo

You're swept off your feet,
Like a pollen in the breeze,
Your journey takes you somewhere,
But you do not know where.

Painful memories,
Blissful times,
Excruciating experiences.

Life is hard,
It's painful,
Full of sorrows.

Fleeting it may be,
It'll soon come to a pass,
A checkpoint,
To an untouched beginning.

Hope

Here's a little something I've written long ago but would like to share it here on blogspot. It's nothing great but I guess it'll do. ;]

I'm waiting,
For hope,
For a miracle,
That would never be fulfilled.

Even if it is hopeless,
I'm certain,
As long as I have faith,
Patience,
The impossible would happen.

I used to think we were two sides of a coin,
Were meant to be,
And could conquer almost anything together,
But you left before we could even get started,
Why?
I ask, why?

Before meeting you,
I thought I was strong,
But after meeting you,
You proved me wrong.

How I wish I could go back to the past,
And this time,
I could at least count the days,
Before you leave.

The Chatelaine - Part 1

Vines crept around her castellated mansion - contributing to its already ancient age. Birds warbled in soporific lassitude brought by the sweep of the wind. There were no ramparts or corrugated gates as protection, only rose bushes that circled the entire building. And that was all she needed. A bastion of abandonment.

She need not be afraid of anything. Surrounded by nothing but an enchanted forest to her right, sickled like beach across the balcony of her room, a cul-de-sac on her left and a winding road that leads to the city from her backyard. There was only her-the chatelaine and her mansion. No maidservant to wait on her, no cook to conjure up scrumptious food. Not even the presence of a spirit. And she was contented just as it is.

How long has it been since she was last basked in the company of others? She couldn't remember. Her name, her past or whether she was still alive, for that matter. The chatelaine lay ensconced in her high-backed chair with a cup of tea in her right hand and a paperback novel in the other. She was seated by the window, where the purveyor of light shined at its brightest. The book was titled "Jane Eyre" by Curer Bell and was taken from her vasts collection of books from the library.

Seemingly detached from the world at present, she did not hear the mild crash that came from the vestibule. Her house was decorated with a smorgasbord of paintings and sculptures. Mostly white sculptures of little cupid and his bow, and elegant Grecian ladies. Smacked in the middle of the room was a red velvet three-settee that was joined by its carbon copy at a ninety degree angle on its right and a piece of intricately carved wooden table between them. Each floor was tessellated in black and white tiles. To others this might seemed like a clash of tastes but to her, it perfectly reflect her inner turmoil.

A second crash echoed and this time, it was much louder than before. She looked up from her novel- all five senses heightened; marked the book with a pin and placed it on the coffee table. Lying beside her four-poster bed was a sheathed sword. She took it and followed the origin of the sound.

Never had she felt so excited. Blood was pumping from all sides of her heart's chamber. One might think that she was insane to think so but not her. She welcomed anything that would break her monotonous days. From her vantage point, she could see the outlines of two men and a lady but not their countenance. Of the two, one was equipped with a long sword. The other, a much slighter build, was holding his hammer single-handedly.
“That looks terribly heavy,” she thought.
The lady was paired with a bow and a collection of arrows in her leather compartment strapped to her back. Curious, she wondered who these people were?

Entry 2

Dear diary,

It's not everyday we get to dream of something so meaningless, so lacking in substance. However, ideas do come every so often in a nebulous form of a dream and most of my stories, to be honest, are usually inspired by the little plays that I conjure up in la-la land. Here's one for instance:

I call this a "Pot of Stew."

Uncle James wiped the pot of stew with a cloth,
It was overflowing with its content,
While the rest of his kin stared in wonderment,
And hunger.

His sister snatched the pot he was cleaning,
A greedy glint in her eyes,
Daring him to look her way,
"Hey, what was that for?" he asked,
"For not listening to my story," she said.

Off she goes weaving her tale,
Of how she wanted to see a play,
But none would,
But one,
Her cousin sister said, "O' but I do."

The rest of the folk said naught,
But shook their heads instead,
In unison they said, "You're just being nice."

Before they could start again,
About something so pointless,
I scooped a little stew
with my wooden spoon,
And into Dear Cousin's mouth it went,
"Hush now," I looked at her, "you're too long-winded."

Now everyone's attention was on me,
And how I love to be basked in it,
I finally said, "So..."
And looked at papa, "When will we be going to Wisteria Forest then?"

To conclude,
That's how a Nimblehead passes his time,
By laying out meaningless questions,
And answers with matching asperity,
...in a nonsensical conundrum.

The end

Till next time,
Abigail.

Entry 1

Dear diary,

There's a kind of warmth which envelops my being, clutches my heart and does not let go. And I know exactly why.

I sat by the window, looking at the pale, round moon. Dusk seemed to have seeped below the horizon, leaving a sliver of orange light. If only I have my camera with me, I thought.

Looking about my cluttered room, I noticed something peeking out under a hodgepodge of bags and accessories. My camera! "Well, what do we have here?" I said with a smile plastered across my face.

Instead of scooping up my camera, I just left it there and continued to stare at the haunting, yet ethereal view. It was as if I wanted to drill the whole image in my head and yes, the idea really crossed my mind. Hence, the abandonment of the camera.

It was a sight, I believe that I would not forget so soon.

Until then,
Abigail.

What counts?

A series of events that had happened in the past made me the person I am today. How I was before, I could not begin to imagine. How I even am now, I can hardly tell. What more, the future? My main purpose in life is simple - that is to live in the present.

I once believe that I must always work harder, push myself to the fullest to have a more comfortable life but not anymore. That once optimistic thought had vanished over with time. On other hand, I have this conception that the present is just as important as both past and future. We're only blessed with one life, and with that - it is the state of NOW that we should fully appreciate and embrace.

I'm happy with my current situation, with how I am. Though I'd be lying if I said I don't wish for more. The ironic part is that I don't even know what is it that I truly desire. I think it is about time I sit down and truly analyze myself.

Swirl of Uncertainties

I believe it is just one of those days that one would feel his head up in the clouds. And my turn came much earlier than it's usual pre-determined date. I've been feeling weird lately. But not weird as in a "weird" sort of way. It is...how do I say this? I just have this feeling that something's trying to tie me down, knock my mask off and throw me off guard.

No matter how much I crack my head over this, nothing comes to mind. No lighted bulb beside my head, not even a fused one. For now, I think it's best to wait and see.

...Yeah, I think I'll do just about that.

The Dream

I knew it. The moment I opened my eyes, I knew it was too realistic to be fictitious. Indeed, I tried to withdraw back into my shell but after struggling with sheer tenacity alone, I gave up. And then it hit me like never before that I was still weak; and my will, I presumably realized was still as flimsy as a piece of rotten wood - where even the slightest touch would cause it to fall apart.

I awoke sweating. What on earth have I been doing besides causing myself trouble? "I am at peace" or so I would like to convince myself. It was then I felt a sudden chill down my spine. The feeling of apprehension could have been so easily tossed aside but my intuition, perhaps, prevented me from doing so. And for a very good reason, I believe. The house of memories that I've tried so hard to hide from the world, had started to crumble within me until nothing's left but rubbles and debris. I sometimes wonder, why must the human mind be so easily tempted into producing projected images of our deepest fears? How does something, so ludicrous as a chill in the spine, threaten my self-made peace of hardwork. One's greatest comfort, after all, is to live in the blanket of self-denial.

I'm no damsel in distress, I'd like to remind you. I abhor the idea of depending on others for our own selfish needs. I detest the fact that I still turn to others when situation arises - even with all those proclaimations. Whenever I look into the mirror, I see a grotesque figure staring back at me. The eyes, in particular, had caught my attention without my full-realization of it. It's funny how one could lose sight of everything, even time, when one becomes too enraptured by something. I peered closely and noticed the eyes showed no sign of childlike innocence or gentleness that it once possessed. All that's left was weariness and emptiness. In other words, it is the eyes in which one would usually associate it to - the eyes of the dead. But the real question here is: What had she gone through to become like that?

"Is that girl really me?", I asked myself, over and over again, like some sort of chant. "If that is so, I refuse to allow myself to become like that. Not now, not ever!" And with that, I woke up to my newfound resolve.

Now and then, when I think back, I wonder what did that dream really meant? Was it a sign to prevent me from walking on the path of self-destruction or was it just mere dream? Either way, I'm equally thankful. For hope was once again restored before my very eyes and it was all due to that realistically drawn dream.