Glad to wake up...

I was sitting alone on my front porch-swing soaking in the last glorious remnants of the late summer sun when my eyes were drawn to a multitude of children converging onto the streets. No ethnicity was prominent, but the age group was obvious. Streams of teens and preteens wandered aimlessly into the neighborhood. In groups; alone, all seeking  attention, all seeking positive direction.

Compelled to help,  I decided I'd start a club. 

I call the kids together in attempt to find out what it is they like to do. I suggest reading, writing, drawing  and painting. sports, dancing... an endless list, all with no results. As it is with dreams, the specifics have since faded, but the fact that I failed them looms large in my mind. 

I remember feeding them and sending them on their way. I remember the sting of sadness and defeat I felt as they drifted into the distance. I remember being glad to wake up.

What does it mean? Perhaps I'll never know. But even now, I am glad I was only dreaming.