A Passing Dream

A Passing Dream

Braden Millikin, Creative Writing student

I stood there, dreaming.

Dreaming of the possibilities, debating in my head the best course of action.

I stood next to the doorway of dormant possibility,

undecided on my next move.

I could get in, drive, and never look back,

or I could simply step away.

Step away from the possibilities,

step away from the boundless potential.

I stood there, dreaming,

unsure of the right answer.


On one hand,

away from the metallic carriage in front of me:

I had a family, a life, and responsibilities

that demanded I continue with my daily routine.

Demanded that I step away, walk inside,

utilize some emotionless small talk to pass the time,

and then begin the next unimportant task,

bound by the limitations of my fears.


But on the other hand,

I could see an overwhelmingly mesmerizing sunset ahead of me

that surely promised nothing, but it did ensure something more than…


I could sit down in my leather throne, where everything was my choice,

where I had the power to lightly press my foot down and I would be swiftly taken away from my dreaded circumstances.


This glossy, silver machine in front of me,

that reflected the alluring orange and red hues of light into my eyes,

was like an idea or an option, completely undeveloped.

An embryo symbolic of every dream and aspiration I silently, secretly yearned for.

Although it sat there on a bed of concrete, an unresponsive shell,

it could be all that stood between me and satisfying existence.


I looked at my reflection in the fogged window.

Tired eyes that watered with sorrow reminded me once again of my

solemn solitude.

My hand drifted up onto the hood,

where I could almost feel my longing for change slowly die out like a light bulb,

long past its expected lifetime.

The dreams inside that once intensely screamed throughout my body

with pure passion

began to whisper.


I struggled to imagine once more a life free of burdens and pain,

driven by audacious curiosity,

but nothing arose.

Any fantasies I once had of riding into the sunset with satisfaction and contentment were finally diminished.

I tapped the hood twice—

a weathered fighter, tapping out in the ring when they can’t take any more—

and I stepped away.

“Not today,” I said to myself, then proceeded to step away from my

hollow machine of chance.