Isn’t it ironic that aspirations can be measured in numbers,
held inside the nooks and crannies of folded palms,
only to be mixed into bowls of social constructs?
But who am I to question the rationality of imagination anyway?
My weighing scale lives life on the edge,
oscillating between dreams and realities like a pendulum,
while people stand with heads bowed, fingers crossed and eyes closed,
in vain attempts to find happiness at the end of the wrong needle.
People like these make me smile.
I trade my smirks for a gleam in their eyes,
but I have been doing this for 35 years now,
which basically means that it takes decades for a new dream to cross my street.
So instead of letting them walk away with a 45.5 or 76.2, I give them a compass,
and ask them to have faith in the pinpoint of another needle for a change,
hoping that one day their thoughts will wander into places not yet numbered by latitudes and longitudes.
Not everybody understands the importance of letting dreams fly, I know,
but at least, everybody agrees not to weigh them down eventually.