Delayed Dreams

Rashid always believed he had time.

Time to travel. Time to explore. Time to chase the dreams that visited him every night before sleep. He would sit on the old wooden chair outside his house, watching the sunset paint the sky orange, and imagine himself kayaking across a wide river, hiking through green forests, and climbing tall mountains that touched the clouds.

Beside him stood a small sign in his mind that read, “Next Year.”

That was his favorite phrase.

Whenever someone asked him, “Rashid, when will you take a break and do something for yourself?” he would smile and say, “Next year. This year is busy.”

The first year passed quickly. Work, responsibilities, small problems, and daily routines filled his calendar. He told himself he was being practical. Dreams could wait. They were not urgent.

He sat again on the same chair. The same sunset. The same thoughts. The same promise.

“Next year, I will go kayaking.”

Another year slipped through his fingers like dry sand.

He grew a little older. His hair showed the first signs of gray. But the sign in his mind still read, “Next Year.”

This time, he imagined himself hiking through a forest with a backpack, breathing fresh air, feeling alive. He could almost hear the birds and feel the cool breeze. His heart wanted to go. His feet wanted to move.

But his mouth said, “Next year.”

Years rolled on.

Rashid didn’t notice how fast they were moving. Life became a cycle of wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. Responsibilities increased. Energy decreased. Dreams stayed where they were — inside his head.

The chair outside his house became his favorite place. He would sit there with an hourglass on the ground beside him, watching the sand fall slowly from the top to the bottom. He found it calming. But he never realized that the hourglass was not just a decoration. It was a silent warning.

Time was falling too.

One evening, as he sat thinking about climbing mountains, he whispered, “Next year, I will do it. I promise.”

He believed his own promise.

But time did not believe him.

Another year passed. Then another. Then another.

His back bent slightly. His steps slowed. His hands trembled just a little when he held a cup of tea. The mountains he once imagined climbing now seemed taller. The forests seemed farther. The river seemed wider.

But the sign was still there.

“Next Year.”

Rashid had become a master of postponement. He postponed joy. He postponed adventure. He postponed living.

He always thought dreams required the perfect time. Perfect money. Perfect health. Perfect situation.

What he didn’t realize was that perfection is the best friend of delay.

One morning, Rashid looked into the mirror and barely recognized the man staring back. Wrinkles lined his face. His eyes had lost some of their spark. He sat again on his chair, the hourglass beside him.

He tried to imagine kayaking.

But this time, the picture was blurry.

He tried to imagine hiking.

But his legs ached just thinking about it.

He tried to imagine climbing a mountain.

But he felt tired before he even started.

Still, out of habit, he smiled weakly and said, “Next year.”

But his voice no longer had confidence. It had fear.

Deep inside, he knew something had changed. Time was no longer walking. It was running.

One day, Rashid didn’t come to sit on his chair.

The chair remained empty. The hourglass stood still. The sand had finished falling.

The sign that always said “Next Year” had no meaning anymore.

Because for Rashid, there was no next year.

People gathered around a small grave. A simple stone stood there with three letters carved into it: R.I.P.

And with him, all his dreams were buried.

The river he never kayaked on.

The forest he never walked through.

The mountain he never climbed.

They all remained in the world, waiting for someone else.

Rashid had spent his entire life preparing to live, but he forgot to actually live.

He believed time was unlimited. He thought opportunities would always be there. He assumed his body would stay strong. He trusted that tomorrow would always arrive.

But tomorrow is not a promise. It is a possibility.

And possibilities disappear when we keep delaying.

Many people live like Rashid.

They say: “I will start exercising next year.” “I will travel next year.” “I will follow my passion next year.” “I will tell my loved ones how much they matter next year.” “I will start living next year.”

But next year is a dangerous illusion. It gives comfort today while stealing life quietly.

Time never argues. It never warns loudly. It simply moves.

The saddest truth is not that people fail. The saddest truth is that many people never even start.

Rashid did not fail at kayaking, hiking, or climbing mountains.

He failed at beginning.

His story is not about death. It is about delay.

Because delay is a slow death of dreams.

The real tragedy is not that he didn’t have time. The tragedy is that he thought he had too much.

Look at your own life for a moment.

What is your “next year”?

What dream are you postponing? What happiness are you delaying? What step are you afraid to take today?

Because the hourglass is beside you too. You just don’t see it.

The sand is falling for everyone.

The difference between people who live fully and those who live with regret is simple: one starts now, the other waits for next year.

Don’t let your dreams sit in your mind like Rashid’s did. Don’t let your chair become a place of imagination instead of action.

If you want to travel, plan it.

If you want to learn, start today.

If you want to change, take the first step now.

If you want to live, stop postponing.

There may never be a perfect time.

But there is always a present time.

And the present is the only place where life actually exists.

Rashid’s grave is a reminder that dreams have an expiry date. They cannot survive forever inside your head. They need action to stay alive.

So don’t say “next year.”

Say, “today.”

Because one day, next year will become never.