That was always me. The boy who spoke too much of dreams, marvelled at the possibilities, and was entranced by every single source of motivation. Transfixed on a goal so high, yet fully confident that it could be achieved.
Do you remember those nights? Curled up in the vehicle, you in my arms, looking out the windows at the trees that surrounded us. It was like our own little place, the trees as our sentries.
Those were the days, youthful optimism, the smell of your hair, a blank canvas as a future.
Fast forward five years and we meet again. You, weary of the world; me, my canvas filled with something considerably different.
You ask, where is that boy? what of the dreams? What of those words?
and I say: he's here, they're still alive, and I meant every single one.
