Vague recordings on: life, love and the world

(Disclaimer: This post records less than one ppm (millionth part) of my opinions on the subject).
Life - what does one say about It, for It is the one saying something about oneself. How does one begin? - There was a time that this person - dreamer that he is - found the world so fresh and young, so mysterious, so full of possibilities, new adventures, dreams, hopes and fears.
One sometimes thinks about those days - the dreams that have come true and those that have receded into the misty , hazy twilight Hades that dead dreams go to, the fears that have been conquered, through careful training, or rigourous practice, or simply through the fear of being laughed at, and those that have, like the proverbial chameleon, changed their appearances, so that they continue to exist even when the original causes are gone.
But one mourns the most for the possibilities, the freshness of outlook, the innocence, the belief in the inherent goodness of people - including in one's own goodness, that somehow seems to have been largely - if not completely - eroded.
Turning the clock back, one remembers the dreams that were fulfilled too late - when they didn't mean much - like the coin collection one made as a child - just the one 1/4 anna coin that one wanted - and found - a 1906 piece, 13 years later, when the collection was just a hazy memory - and lost again. Or the Enid Blyton stories that one read as a child - a favourite one being about pixies, and thinks about the pixie that one found 16 years later, who flew away before one could close one's arms around her and say "Hey Pixie!".
One remembers thinking about the loved ones that one lost along the way - the ones for whom one wanted to conquer the world, to "do something" - who were not even there when finally one could say, "I did this!" - and during whose final moments, one was conspicuous - only by one's absence.
Then come the friends - some who've stood by one during all one's trials, the ones to whom one could open out one's heart - and also the ones to whom one couldn't - the ones who shared all their happiness and hid their sorrows, so one would not be troubled, as well as the one whose sorrow makes a heartless person like me get my eyes wet, but whom I cannot help, for the only way to help her is to give her something that is not in my power to give, or even pray for.
And so, methinks, that the world can be a cruel place to some - though it has been very good to me.