To Dream Is a Privilege

Yesterday, I saw an old man sitting on the curb,

his coat patched in places, shoes frayed at the edges,

and I couldn’t stop looking at him.

There was something in the way he held himself,

a quiet weight, like the world had been pressing down for decades.

I kept wondering who he wanted to be once,

before life became this, before the streets became home.

Did he have dreams that burned bright?

Did he imagine a life full of laughter, of people noticing him,

of mornings where hope felt endless and possible?

Or were his dreams small, simple things

a warm bed at night, a cup of tea shared with someone who cared,

a smile from a stranger that meant more than he could say?

I realized, as I watched him,

that being able to dream is itself a kind of privilege.

Not everyone gets the chance to imagine a different life,

to believe in what could be,

to hold a future in their hands.

Some are forced to survive before they can even think of thriving.

I wondered what moments made him happy,

what made him laugh so hard it hurt,

what music once made his heart beat faster.

And I felt a strange ache, thinking of all the pieces of him

that the world must have overlooked,

all the plans that slipped quietly through his fingers,

all the “what ifs” left unanswered.

I wanted to reach out,

to tell him that I see him, that someone does,

but I didn’t know how.

So I walked on, carrying his image in my mind,

feeling the weight of a life lived quietly,

and thinking about how fragile dreams can be

when the world forgets to notice.

Even now, I can’t stop wondering

about the stories in his eyes,

the places he wanted to go,

the person he hoped he could become,

and how much of that person is still there,

holding on, surviving, waiting.

It made me think about all of us,

about the dreams we tuck away,

the lives we forget to notice in ourselves and in others,

and the quiet ways people carry their histories

while the rest of the world rushes past.

-dmnd