The Myth of Dreams
He was just another reporter, tired of getting screwed for what he did best; exposing shocking truths, the ignored stigmas. Crying, he began to whisper to the flickering light bulb almost in sync with the leak in this damp cell. Only it could understand how the truth would become a lie, while the prince would live his fable, smiling alongside luxury-women and luxury-cars, calmly convincing himself of the impossible.
All the slanderous words the reporter had used to describe a simple wild night would become his executioners. The rich don’t rape, at most they lose body auctions and pay the minimum price for the merchandise, after all, who wouldn’t sell themselves?
A reporter who was just following the rules, as it had to be, all he had to do was expose the truth and fulfill his duty, here he lies plunged into the darkness of all the dreams that are gone.
The prince smiled in his carriage.
Was justice served?
He was just another man in love at his wedding, alone in a hotel room, waiting for a woman. His beloved, chosen to be his wife. He grinds his teeth at the phone that gives him no answer, wondering what she could be doing now, breathless and with a pulse that won’t slow down, he stamps his legs on the floor, pulls his own hair; knees hit the ground. Tears.
The thought, herald of this odious world, had announced his sentence and left him desperate. Now it’s too late, later than it should have been; and despite his aching eyes wanting to sleep, against all reason, against everything he believes in, against all the pain… he prays for her protection.
The court jester prays in his mausoleum.
Was justice served?
She was just another mother, nervous and stressed, chasing her own children she barely knew through the market, trying to shop in order. The father, far away, drowns himself in alcohol at some random bar while spitting out chickens laughing about empty things like football and billiards. He used to be a conqueror, a king.
A man who used to wake up smiling at the sun, now leaves the bar drunk on his own selfishness for his own life. Alone, he can barely open the door and upon closing it, the most devastating heart attack visits him. In his solitude, the sight of the ceiling and the bitterness of his own life are his only companions.
A king cries in his castle.
Was justice served?
There is a myth that should be made, one we would spread every day. The painful deaths caused by withered and rotted dreams, the giving up of those we love. The soul that fades from its plane.
Was justice served?
This is the myth of dreams.
