I dreamt of a Bridge Maker.
As a child, she dreamed of nothing else but building beautiful bridges that spanned across vast rivers and oceans, connecting the different communities of people who longed to travel safely to the other side.
As most of us, the Bridge Maker worked hard, starting small with delicately crafted structures made to keep forest wanderers dry as they traversed over small streams and babbling brooks. As her designs and attention to detail gained popularity, so did the sizes of her bridges. Instead of 1 to 10 feet wide bridges, people requested 50 to 100 feet wide bridges!
Fueled by a new desire to be the most popular bridge maker in the land, she greedily accepted more and more commissions, while her attention to detail and personal touch slowly faded and became less important. The Bridge Maker was famous - "who cares about silly details," she thought to herself. She was THE Bridge Maker, the talk of the town, with a steadily growing fan base of loyal admirers who would travel far and wide to worship her creations.
However, the Bridge Maker's audience wasn't the only thing growing. Pride and arrogance swelled within her and the Bridge Maker became increasingly difficult to work with - demanding more money for her commissions and bigger revealing ceremonies! Her head grew ten times it's size and the Bridge Maker, forgetting her humble dream to connect people, stopped building bridges altogether.
"I can't build these magnificent bridges if people on the other side of the banks won't build their own structure first! How dare you ask me to do such lowly work?" she screamed of her latest, and most sizable commission to date. "But, you're a bridge maker...aren't you supposed to build the foundations on both sides of the water before topping it off with a connecting pathway? How are we supposed to build a foundation to a bridge you've designed?" The Bridge Maker shooed them away and ended their partnership without finishing the bridge, claiming the work they asked of her was unreasonable.
Eventually, as it does, word spread of her hubris and commissions slowly dried up - audiences stopped attending her lectures and traveling to visit he bridges. No one wanted to humor her arrogance and she was forced into hiding as a result of her shame. Only on her death bed did she resurface, aged beyond her years by the grief of losing her dream. A dream buried by the insatiable desire for fame and fortune.
The Bridge Maker closed her eyes for the final time holding the first bridge she ever made - a humble collection of misshapen sticks held together with tree sap - with the unrealized dream of connecting people.
I was the only one who attended her funeral.