by Bruce Zhang
hardboiled story intern – fall 2014
To some, dreams start and end with the bed.
They start when we sleep, and end when we rise.
They are not persistent, they’re ever-changing.
They don’t have meaning, they are just present.
To some, dreams are just our subconscious speaking.
They speak of our innermost desires, the ones which we try to hide.
But often they are difficult to grasp, difficult to understand, difficult to fathom.
Difficult to comprehend just what is occurring in our minds.
It’s these dreams that are like butterflies.
Beautiful to behold, but they just flutter by.
They catch our attention for a moment and then disappear.
They come and go with the whispers of our “subconscious” desires.
Just as I have dreams when I sleep, I dream when I am awake.
It’s these dreams that stick and have power.
That give me the determination to continue on
Even when hope is distant from the horizon.
They give me the will to fight against the injustices I see.
To refuse to take the world as is and to imagine something else.
To imagine a world where people are no longer oppressed.
Where every chain can be shattered and everyone is free.
It tells me to fight for a future where Ferguson will not repeat.
A future where people are not stopped for being the wrong color at the wrong place.
Where every shooting, every murder, every wrongful action will be given its proper court case.
And where the police are no longer the aggressors, but the blue who keep the peace.
My dreams tell me to fight for a future where the government don’t lie.
Where every vote is counted and every election is fair.
Where the people can freely choose their leader from a list they pick.
It’s with these dreams that Hong Kong sits still.
They tell me to fight for a future where rapes are investigated.
They show me a time where every victim’s voice is heard and every rape is given its due case.
That instead of the universities worrying about their so-called reputation,
They will worry about the welfare of their students and those they “educate”.
Now these dreams float so lofty in the sky,
But they are the battle cries of our generation.
They ring out from Ferguson to Hong Kong to Columbia.
They ring out from movement to movement, from nation to nation.
People may call us, this young generation, foolish, people may call us naïve.
But nonetheless we march forward, with our dreams in stride.
For we are dreamers dreaming of a different present.
So let them call us young naïve fools,
We call ourselves dreamers.