Yet remains the question of dreams. // a short scene

Instructions

Full name that I couldn't fit: Yet Remains the Question of Dreams/A Lot Like Me // a short scene I was thinking of this story in a british accent (i don't naturally have one btw I just think in whatever accent whoever I'm hearing speak or sing or whatever has) so if you wanna use a british accent when you're reading this in your head, feel free to do so. There was one thing I wrote on the page before I started that really sparked this, so I'm gonna put that here too. It’s the type of feeling you can only evoke with music, yet I’ll try to capture that emotion and keep it in my fist to hold on to and I’ll write. I’ll write a story of this. The boy wanders, though it’s not very far. Why dream? Why stay in one place? His true home is far away and unreachable, for it’s never been found and never known. It never will be either. Does he gaze at the stars, you think? Or does he keep his head to the broken cobblestones beneath him, knowing the stars aren’t here really? Truly? Who could stay their whole lives not dreaming, or living for all we know? Soon the sunlight will glint off the rooftops and breathe light into the boy's eyes, into his life, maybe even his soul if he’s lucky. But for now, he waits. Yet remains the question of dreams. What do you think he would dream of, that is, if he did? Everyone must have a dream, whether they are awake while dreaming or not, shouldn't they? Everyone must have something that keeps us going, yet this boy’s is for now remaining a mystery. Maybe he has a family across the sea in a faraway land he can’t get to. Is it guarded by a barrier? Is he the one stopping himself? Or is his family here, waiting for him to come home as the first bits of shadow cross over the streets? Will he come home? Or does he stay a wanderer, thinking of whatever dreams he doesn’t have? We won’t know, I don’t think. But to a sense, he reminds me of myself, in the way that maybe I’m the one standing on that street, gaze lifted towards the rays of sun and moonshine, or dropped to the cool rocks below. In the way that I’m this boy, with the family far far away or right near in the one place I can’t reach. But he doesn’t dream, and I’m not that one. As far as I can tell, I dream. And I dream of dances, through stories, through messages, through the hopes I wish I didn't have because one day it’s sure their light will die out. Then I’ll be alone. And is this boy alone? I guess no one will ever know, because no one is around him to notice it. Nobody to see him. Everyone who passes by doesn’t glance at the child who maybe, just maybe, is alone after all, do they? Do they notice the boy whose dreams are forgotten and maybe not there in the first place? Are you alone? Would anyone here, anyone else, a child who’s as alone as me and the boy in this story–me, the boy in this story– stop and see the boy before them, the one who just maybe couldn’t go home if he tried? Or maybe could always go home, but could never try? There’s a correct answer, and I don’t know it and neither will you. In many ways, you’re a lot like me. And knowing me, the boy in this story, you could be standing on that cool stone street, not dreaming or looking at the stars. Or are you dreaming? Are you one who could think about your dreams, about the world high above ours, and the sunlight ready to appear soon, and not feel more alone as always? Are you one who’s reading this and not hurting, not feeling, one who maybe wouldn’t stop and notice the boy before them wandering? Because as long as the boy wanders, as long as we wonder what he dreams, if he dreams, no one will stop, no one will be there to notice if he’s alone. And yet remains the question. You're a lot like me, you know.