Most dreams do not come to fruition.
Some die quickly. The lucky ones. Some fizzle out like a wine bottle left opened. They don’t taste the same when finally you get to drink them.
Others just linger on. In a state of limbo, like life on a treadmill, running to stand still. They become you, they make you who you are, so after a while if someone asks you what they were, you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint them. They were me then. They are me now.
A few, the worse ones, doggedly hang on, never completed, never dead, metamorphosing into fantasies in the dead of the night when you are all alone, every time receding a step further you chase them. Then you stop chasing them, but they don’t die, they get repacked, rehashed, refurbished for your consumption, like a second hand 5 year old iPhone model no longer on sale. They change their shape, their scale, their motive, they desert you at night even if you try to get hold of them, no longer extravagant, exuberant, exhilerating, furious, no longer vast, no longer causing tremors in your skin like an old man devoid of dopamine.
The goal posts shift, the size of the pitch now resembles the skill of your play, no longer reaching out at the far corner to stretch every sinew to keep the ball in play, you no longer have to change channels when the kids come into the room. Fit for public consumption without revulsion or envy.
Keep them as a souvenir of your journey. Paste them in a scrap book. Put the scrap book in an attic. That’s the only place where they belong.
And be glad of the perfect crime. You killed them and no one found the body.