In the house next door lived a boy who was afraid of never becoming someone, for he had been born with a hidden desire to stand out. Such was his desire that, even as an adult, he kept dreaming of returning to school to shine where he had once been just another face in the crowd.
In none of those dreams did he achieve his goal. They were like those other dreams in which he would start running but barely move forward, as though enormous, heavy chains were holding him back. He was immersed in that endless pursuit of achievement, fantasising that one day he would wake up and say to himself: “At last! I did it! I am someone! I am worthy!”
He was so fragile…
So vulnerable…
He was the straw house from the tale of the three little pigs, the one the slightest puff of air could blow down, for he had built himself out of layers upon layers of illusions. In none of them did he find the happiness he sought, nor anything that would have turned him into a solid brick house capable of weathering any storm.
He feared any unexpected event that might come along and bring him down; sometimes, something as insignificant as a few words.
One day, tired of hiding from himself, he decided to create a beautiful garden in front of his house, without fences or boundaries. He began planting everything he had been hiding and offering it to anyone who passed by. Right there, he realised that the achievement he had been pursuing had never meant anything at all.
“What a beautiful garden!” someone said.