The dream thief…

Here it is; the scene of the crime on one of those cold stormy afternoons when the clouds moved, the wind blew and the customers never came. I didn’t mind, I wasn’t really there to sell; I was there to dream.

I often think of Bangor Pier. Of course I try to remember it before it turned so sour, at that time when it was just another silly adventure, a bit of a lark, a dream and my dream at that. A time before the slowly encroaching tacky toys and the constant rubbing away of the shine made me give it up altogether.

I’d sit, the boy who sees nothing, and make my silly things, listening to the wind crashing in the windchimes above my head. Sometimes I would sit for hours without seeing a single soul, the rain drumming on the lead roof, lashing the tall windows and turning them to wet frosted glass. My own little kingdom; the kingdom of the blind?

Of course I should have known. It was all my own fault. Only a fool lets the dream thief into his world, turning it to grey with his lack of wonder and his understanding of nothing outside the everyday. The real world he calls it. Turning the world to nothing – there’s nothing real about that, except disappointment.

When the dream thief offers help he always lies. He doesn’t do anything without there being something in it for him, a silver coin here, a drop of blood or two there, children's tears, a slap on the back from some slack, sad, Shylock. Eventually he always takes, and takes, and takes everything - until there is nothing left.

I haven’t been to Bangor Pier for a long, long time now. Maybe one day when the clouds rush across the sky and the dark has taken him away, I will again.