I wish I could dream.
But I do not dream anymore.

I would dream of buying photo albums,
filling them with things that happened, and things that never will.
Pictures of people I’ve lost,
and images of those I never met —
faces I invented just to feel less alone.

I would dream of getting a new canvas.
Not to draw something beautiful.
Just to splatter paint without consequence,
without guilt,
without shame.
To make a mess and still be loved after.

I would dream of learning Russian
just to read Dostoevsky the way he was meant to be read.
To sit with his despair in its native tongue.
To understand what greater men have written
about anguish, madness, and grace.

I would dream of piano lessons
to play her favorite songs.
Hoping she’d hear past the notes,
past the noise,
into the hollowed chambers of my heart.

I would dream of crossing things off an ever-growing bucket list.
Skydiving,
getting my pilot’s license,
scuba diving through wreckage,
running a marathon on borrowed knees.

I would dream of waking up without bargaining with the day.
Of mornings that didn’t begin with negotiation —
where the weight of survival wasn’t the first thing I put on.
Of brushing my teeth without rehearsing apologies.
Of crossing a room without remembering who used to stand in it.

I would dream of quiet that didn’t feel like failure.
Of silence that wasn’t punishment.
Of rest that actually restored something
instead of sharpening the ache.

I would dream of being whole.

I wish I could dream.
But I do not dream anymore.