Of golden roses and a red Pontiac

Once upon a time, there was a man in a torn, black shoes. He woke up everyday dreaming of a shinier, and blacker, shoes. It wasn't much, but it got him out of his bed everyday. So he thought, "Thats a good enough dream for me."

Little did he know that all dreams meant something. He was still young after all. His dreams kept changing over the years, until one day he decided that there's not much worth in keeping up with all of them. That they'd all slow him down eventually. And that they all made him break the promises he made to himself.

He was fond of his vows and promises. That was how they got him hurt. It was a double blow, you see. He was mortified for breaking his promises, and was mortified for being betrayed by his shadow.

That was when his torn shoes lost its meaning. That was how he'd forgotten how sad he was when he heard his first beggar song. How the singer was blind. How the singer memorised all of the Malay classics. How him and his wife had them all written in braille. How beautiful the melody was. And how their bucket was filled with a single coin, the value of their lifetime effort.

But he still is young. And maybe, just maybe. When all of his cigarette smoke settles, he'd find the true meaning of the torn, black shoes again. That it was alright for him to dream of the treasures he wish he'd have. As long as he dreams of sharing them all as well.

For now, lets just all wish him good luck.