At what point do I give up the dream?

When should I decide it is unattainable, no easier to grasp than the receding rays of sunlight in those final days of summer?

Would it be so tragic to file it away with childhood notions of being able to fly away or becoming a famous ballerina? Accepting those dreams as whimsical, things that are inevitably shelved along with building blocks and board games, is part of stepping into adulthood, part of developing an awareness of strengths and weaknesses, reality versus idealism, which goals are worth pursuing and which are better left among the toys that have been outgrown… So should it be the same with this dream, that I finally accept it as just a sweet idea that will never manifest in any tangible way?

Is that giving up, or just growing up?

A friend often talks of reframing thoughts that bother us, shifting our perspectives to look upon our lives in a new light so we find a different lesson, a different reaction, a different emotion to take away from it…

Okay. I’ll reframe: I have learned that I can still live fully, that I can be wrapped up in beauty and trust and tenderness with a man I can’t call my own. I can choose to live in the moment with him, take his hand when he offers it and let him pull me into the sky for a while and, when he asks, simply open my hands and float back down to earth, away from him… Which means maybe this dream of mine won’t be the picture I had in my head, a rich saturation of colors and bold shapes; maybe it will be more abstract, like quick flashes of film. But I would still have those moments, that little while of living. Would that be enough? Would I feel fulfilled?

It seems silly to forego the opportunity to live that little-while adventure with him to continue to wait. Wait for a notion that exists only in my head, that may never come true. Wait for another man that may not arrive…

But then… is this settling?

Is growing up really nothing more than letting go?

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