On the street, there on the right side, is a man. He walks to work with the weight of the world on him, with the pressure of obligations, palpable even from here.
As a child, he is a dreamer. He throws on the cap he got for his birthday, dreaming every moment of every day of being a firefighter off to save the day. Those moments dwindle as his studies to become something more slowly fill the gaps in his mind, and then spill into the corners specifically reserved for dreams. The physics classes teach him fear of heights, the econ classes the delicacy of the money market, the biology classes the fragility of life, the statistic classes the few who make it, the sociology classes the might in numbers, the philosophy classes the ideas of others...
No longer does he think of the firetruck, except in those exhilarating moments when a siren rings and wind brushes against his face from the force of the red blur now speeding away down the street... But that's not practical! It's dangerous, and stupid, and different, and whats-his-name at one time said that jobs like that are whats-it-called. So he walks down the street into the indistinguishable glass building lost among other men in suits.
His adventure gone, his fears multiplied, his practicality in high gear, his thoughts stamped out by those that are more highly acknowledged, his personality molded into everyone around him. And he doesn't even know that his dream is still there, that his dream can still be, but it is lost in the thicket of maturity, progress and real life.
-as
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