Once I had a dream about the garden. I felt good in it. The wind whispered that everything is still ahead, and victories are onwards. In this garden I saw bright, colorful trees, and the flowers stretched their leaves towards me. Birdsongs inspired to go forward, they sounded like fanfares. All my dear people were here. They smiled, they held my hands and promised to stay with me in the future. I talked to everyone who was in this garden, and they told me their secrets, and I shared my thoughts and feelings with them. And everyone listened to me, I was heard. I believed in this magic.
And then I woke up. There are birds — but they do not sing, there is a wind — but I do not understand his language. All around are people rushing about their business, passing by and often not seeing any dreams, looking at their feet – but not forward to the future. I speak to people, but they do not hear me. The trees, birds, and people who were with me in my garden suddenly have become silhouettes, their outlines have become vague.
What is real? What is a dream? This question does not have one correct answer. For everyone, it’s probably his own. After all, I’m just a silhouette for someone. Who erased me out of his life? Will I be able to save this garden and all those dear to me? What projections do I cause, and which of my feelings are projections of the other people? What seems light to one, is dark to another. The fact that for me is a dream, for another is a reality. What I would like to erase, the other carefully preserves. On my «hello» someone will say «that’s all. goodbye».
It’s already down. The shadows become shorter, and the silhouettes become smaller. I see the garden again.
