Once upon a time there was a man, brave and true, yet somewhat confused, who had made his way through life, and reaching its middle point, journeyed to the high ground to take a look about him. He saw there the lofty spires of those dreams that still burned brightly, poking up through the mists of his confusion. But he also sensed that down below, out of sight lay the wrecks of other dreams that had fallen into ruin. He then resolved to make an accounting.

He labored hard on this worthy project, for he sensed that, with the effort might come some redemption. As the day gave way to night, and the stars moved over-head he continued with the endeavor. In his mind’s eye he could see the child that he once was. He saw and remembered the face of his father and the scent of his mother. Old words and lessons learned came back to him, as weary ghosts hauled out of the past. He recalled his travels and thought about the underlying purpose and intent.

He visited old classrooms and the teachers that had touched him, recalling past epiphanies of learning moments. He heard the laughter and felt the late night exhaustion, and his mind’s eye journeyed onward. Faces swirled around him, tired, frenetic, careworn and joyous faces all. He tried to recall the names, but he could not pull them from the past, but he could sense that these people, these friends well met and then forgotten could see right through him. But he remembered the good-byes, and the ones that had hurt the most--the ones that were never uttered.

He wondered, "where did all of the time go?" For he had surely had his feast, and gobbled up his portion. And he had drunk long pulls from that bittersweet cup of his own time, yet had he slaked his thirst?

He then wandered on the battlefield and tasted the acrid leavings of burnt cordite. He heard the anguished screams of the dying, those that he had been responsible for, but had failed. And could he remember their names? No, he could not, and he had yet to make sense of this madness.

Then he turned to his triumphs, and although they were few, he relished the memory of each experience. He recalled the exhilaration and satisfaction, and restful sleep. And as his mind’s eye journeyed on, night became day.

He abruptly found himself in a meadow, at the site of a picnic that had never happened. And he wondered, for this surely was the place that he had dreamed of many times before. There was cool water and wildflowers, and beside the water, the springy, fragrant grass had been depressed, as if a blanket had been laid there. And on the wind he heard the echoes of faint laughter, and voices also, yet he could not discern their meaning.

The man returned to the higher ground. Day was again turning into night and he was weary, but less confused. And as the sun set over the spires of his dreams still remaining, he reviewed his ledger and then slept deeply.