My Santa

Dad's my Santa Claus. He fulfilled half of the goals/dreams in my wish list or my so-called "Goals list". Without Dad, I'd never be able to achieve those dreams so quickly and easily. He made it seem so easy to fulfil those goals that ironically, the goals have become meaningless. The goals don't seem like goals anymore.

Goals are something that you set, a high benchmark for yourself, something to look forward to, something to work hard towards and finally, smile through the film of tears as you come through it all-all the blood and sweat and toil-and say "I did it!"

Maybe it's the ease with which my goals have been achieved that I don't feel much joy. I'm not complaining now that my goals have been attained. Some of them have been at the back of my mind for so long that they seem more like foggy dreams than anything else.

Dreams are beautiful things. They are meant to be. Unfortunately, they turn out to be otherwise at times. Sometimes, these dreams just die; at other times, they evolve into nightmares which serve as painful reminders of failed attempts. With dreams, we hope. Hope in turn entails faith which in turn entails disappointment.

Dad has fulfilled my dreams just like that. *snaps* And in doing so has robbed me of the hope and/or faith and/or disappointment that comes along with dreaming. I don't know whether to be happy or sad. I think I'm living in equilibrium. To be unhappy because I'm deprived of the chance of hoping or be glad that some dreams that seem so far (and so long) have finally been accomplished.

Whatever it is, Dad's my Santa. I've never believed in Santa even as a child. I still don't. But I have to admit that miracles happen when you least expect them. My dreams glow...