The Latter Kind
There are two kinds of people in the world. People who have dreams, and people who give other people dreams.
He was of the latter kind.
If someone had a dream, he’d be there to watch over them. When they had a request, he’d fulfill it. If there was someone who needed a shoulder to cry on, who needed someone to confide in, who wanted someone beside them wherever they went, it was him who went with them every step of the way. He always knew the right words to say, and when he held their hand, it would give them strength and courage to keep going. And he never said no, he just smiled with that gentle smile of his. Those with dreams require others to help them fulfill them. And he was of the latter kind.
She had dreams.
She wanted to be free, to soar above others. She did not want to remain rooted to the ground, she wanted to be out there, to take on the world, to see things that others couldn’t see, and she wanted to fly. She looked forward to the future, she looked further than the present, and she had dreams that soared much higher beyond anyone else’s. When she talked of these dreams, her face would brighten and her voice lifted up as if she was singing. Those with dreams follow them ruthlessly and don’t look behind them to see who held their hand along the way. She was the one with dreams.
But sometimes, just sometimes, those who weren’t supposed to have dreams did
.
He didn’t know how it happened, he did not expect it. He had never had any strong desires before; he’d just always been there, to encourage, to support the ones with dreams. But then it happened. And he was at a loss of what to do.
She never looked behind her. She was always the one surrounded by people. People automatically flocked to her, she had that magnetism that people wanted to be near. And she was not the person who could be tied down, she had to be free, she wouldn’t stay in one place long enough because she had to go wherever she wanted.
But he tipped the balance.
His dreams were full of her. He wanted to be near her, and not just in the transient way he was at the moment. He did not want to be just the boy who watched her when she talked of her dreams. He didn’t want to be the one who confronted her when she felt sad; he wanted to be the one she ran to when she needed someone to hold. He did not want to be the one who sat opposite her when they ate lunch together; he wanted to be sitting beside her, holding her hand.
She didn’t see the longing way he watched her, the way he always lingered the little while longer when they went their separate ways. She always laughed freely, without care. She didn’t walk slowly, she seemed to dance. If she were to fly, he’d be the one who lifted her up. If she were airborne in the sky, he’d be left behind on the ground.
So he never said anything. Because he knew that there were two kinds of people in the world. People who have dreams and people who give other people dreams.
And he was of the latter kind.
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"The Latter Kind" is a little story/rant-type thing I wrote a bit over a year ago. Strangely, it didn't really take much time and pretty much wrote itself, probably because it's more like a drabble.
I'm the latter kind.
I think, on the outside, I seem like the former kind. Especially to my parents, and people who know me, I always appear to be someone absolutely relentless in chasing my dreams. Even though I'm not good at something, if it's something I love or I'm determined to get better at, I'll do it. Instead of focusing on my studies like I should, or working on academic things that presumably will get me further in life, I spend all my time thinking and dreaming and writing and drawing. All the time. Even if I know writing won't get me anywhere, and to pursue it as a career won't work, I do it anyway. Even though I know I have no talent whatsoever, and my parents tell me that all the time, and I struggle and nothing ever comes out like I want it to, I do it anyway. I must be a glutton for punishment or something.
But every now and then, more often than not, I'm hit with this sudden blow, in the stomach. That no matter how hard I try, how much I write, how much I draw, I'll never get there. Like I'm always someone who dreams way too big, tries much too hard, looks too far upwards. I'm always reaching out, stretching for something that's beyond my tiny fingertips. Like I'm always running or trying to catch that stupid dream in a net that's too small.
I'm just pretending. I'm of the latter kind, just pretending to be the former. I might seem relentless, someone who dreams and tries unendingly- someone who doesn't look behind them when they chase something, but I do.
But it's okay. I can keep pretending to myself. I can keep lying. After all, I am a storyteller.
He was of the latter kind.
If someone had a dream, he’d be there to watch over them. When they had a request, he’d fulfill it. If there was someone who needed a shoulder to cry on, who needed someone to confide in, who wanted someone beside them wherever they went, it was him who went with them every step of the way. He always knew the right words to say, and when he held their hand, it would give them strength and courage to keep going. And he never said no, he just smiled with that gentle smile of his. Those with dreams require others to help them fulfill them. And he was of the latter kind.
She had dreams.
She wanted to be free, to soar above others. She did not want to remain rooted to the ground, she wanted to be out there, to take on the world, to see things that others couldn’t see, and she wanted to fly. She looked forward to the future, she looked further than the present, and she had dreams that soared much higher beyond anyone else’s. When she talked of these dreams, her face would brighten and her voice lifted up as if she was singing. Those with dreams follow them ruthlessly and don’t look behind them to see who held their hand along the way. She was the one with dreams.
But sometimes, just sometimes, those who weren’t supposed to have dreams did
.
He didn’t know how it happened, he did not expect it. He had never had any strong desires before; he’d just always been there, to encourage, to support the ones with dreams. But then it happened. And he was at a loss of what to do.
She never looked behind her. She was always the one surrounded by people. People automatically flocked to her, she had that magnetism that people wanted to be near. And she was not the person who could be tied down, she had to be free, she wouldn’t stay in one place long enough because she had to go wherever she wanted.
But he tipped the balance.
His dreams were full of her. He wanted to be near her, and not just in the transient way he was at the moment. He did not want to be just the boy who watched her when she talked of her dreams. He didn’t want to be the one who confronted her when she felt sad; he wanted to be the one she ran to when she needed someone to hold. He did not want to be the one who sat opposite her when they ate lunch together; he wanted to be sitting beside her, holding her hand.
She didn’t see the longing way he watched her, the way he always lingered the little while longer when they went their separate ways. She always laughed freely, without care. She didn’t walk slowly, she seemed to dance. If she were to fly, he’d be the one who lifted her up. If she were airborne in the sky, he’d be left behind on the ground.
So he never said anything. Because he knew that there were two kinds of people in the world. People who have dreams and people who give other people dreams.
And he was of the latter kind.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The Latter Kind" is a little story/rant-type thing I wrote a bit over a year ago. Strangely, it didn't really take much time and pretty much wrote itself, probably because it's more like a drabble.
I'm the latter kind.
I think, on the outside, I seem like the former kind. Especially to my parents, and people who know me, I always appear to be someone absolutely relentless in chasing my dreams. Even though I'm not good at something, if it's something I love or I'm determined to get better at, I'll do it. Instead of focusing on my studies like I should, or working on academic things that presumably will get me further in life, I spend all my time thinking and dreaming and writing and drawing. All the time. Even if I know writing won't get me anywhere, and to pursue it as a career won't work, I do it anyway. Even though I know I have no talent whatsoever, and my parents tell me that all the time, and I struggle and nothing ever comes out like I want it to, I do it anyway. I must be a glutton for punishment or something.
But every now and then, more often than not, I'm hit with this sudden blow, in the stomach. That no matter how hard I try, how much I write, how much I draw, I'll never get there. Like I'm always someone who dreams way too big, tries much too hard, looks too far upwards. I'm always reaching out, stretching for something that's beyond my tiny fingertips. Like I'm always running or trying to catch that stupid dream in a net that's too small.
I'm just pretending. I'm of the latter kind, just pretending to be the former. I might seem relentless, someone who dreams and tries unendingly- someone who doesn't look behind them when they chase something, but I do.
But it's okay. I can keep pretending to myself. I can keep lying. After all, I am a storyteller.
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