Reveries

HIS JOURNEY STARTED at a table, where he sat and skimmed over a book about outer space. Granny gave it to him an hour ago, him receiving it with the cutest smile she thought could have ever existed. He thanked her with a peck on her wrinkly cheek, and stormed off to his room to start reading, hearing her chuckle as he climbed the creaky stairs. At age 6, the little boy did not have a vast lexical vocabulary, and so he was left with just wandering about the glorious pictures. He started off with the first page, where a large picture of the Solar System was placed in the middle. He counted the 11 circles, going back to the sun countless times because of how huge it was from the others. He read on and on, losing himself at pictures of stars and rockets, astronauts and comets, galaxies and nebulas. When his mother came home from work, she found him snoring, his nose still tucked in on the book. She carried him to his bed with a tight squeeze, tight enough to make him mumble, "Mom, I want to be an astronaut one day."

Then came the age of 13, when that dream was slowly crushed. As he sat in his Science class, listening to the teacher talking about the distance between planets and the light years it would take to Jupiter's moons, he pondered what exactly sprung up in his mind to dream about being an astronaut. Reality was the hammer to his jar of fantasies; it slowly cracked the clear glass, his tears reflected by light on its smooth surface, his hands aching to snatch it to safety. But reality gave him a jumpstart on what to do next: to decide on the direction it has set for him to choose. But reveries eventually and will still come, no matter how you thought everything will stay so real.

Years later, sitting on an outdoor bench eating a strawberry jammed sandwich with a friend, he stared at a girl with dark brown hair and blue eyes. She was seated on the center lawn, her legs outstretched and her body leaning on her left arm for support. She laughed with her circle of friends, the sun's rays gleaming on her sunglasses. She occasionally took licks from her double scoop of vanilla ice cream, crunching on the toppings of chocolate chips and sprinkles. Just before he thought everything was fine, or at least would be, a guy came up and gave her a small kiss, and they'd giggle at each other's breath. The bell rung, signaling for classes, and his reverie, along with her boyfriend, skidded to class hand in hand. He watched them go, releasing a heavyhearted sigh, and walked behind his only friend in college towards the doors.

It's been a long time since he gave up on all of his daydreams. He gave up on being an astronaut, on the girl he loved. Every time he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders since that day, when he has concluded that he'll have to live on the reality and let go of his dreams, he would bring himself to a field overlooking a beautiful scenery. He'd pile himself up in his black car, bringing along a word search puzzle and a pencil, and drive himself there. After somewhat of a calm puzzle search, he'd relaxed and breathed. As he hugged his knees and rested his chin on top, he realized that the little things counted amid the confusion in reaching dreams. The book his Granny gave to him. The tight squeeze of his mother. The smile his Science teacher gave him when he recited the right answer. His only friend in college. These little things stay little forever, but they tend to build up together to create a wide, toothy smile on his face, or cause him enough force to pass on little things to the people he loved as well.

He sighed, and smiled.