Have you ever had a moment when you realized you had moved away from something you were passionate about, and found yourself edging towards something that was unfulfilling yet sustaining enough to get you through the day?

Maybe the revelation came to you suddenly; it occurs to you on no particular day at no particular time. The days have been the same blending of mindless repetition for so long that you’ve really forgotten what distinguishes one from the next, so you don’t really remember when it happened.

You just suddenly became aware of a deep ache in your soul, some part of you that has not been fed or tended to in a long time. Some dream that you desperately want to make happen, but never do. It’s a gnawing ache, and it’s made all the more troubling by what you nourish in your dream’s stead. Pattern, cycle, the daily grind, whatever you call it; given the choice to pour your effort into illuminating a prism or a blank piece of paper, the paper shines brightly while the prism glitters weakly. Not the fading light of death, but something much more pitiful. The weak, struggling light of something given just enough to keep on living, but never enough to actually blossom.

So here you are with a blank piece of paper you can decorate with all the delicate shades of grey you want, contrasted with a potential of a thousand rainbows of innumerable color and complexity.

Paper can be forever shaped, written upon, erased upon, drawn upon, and even destroyed to become beautiful. But no matter how you treat a piece of paper, it will remain forever flat, lifeless, and it will never sparkle in the sun.

So too with your life and your dreams.