What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun, or fester like a sore and then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat, or crust and sugar over, like a syrupy sweet. Maybe it just sags like a heavy load,

or does it explode? That's Harlem, one of the most famous poems by Langston Hughes, the father

of jazz poetry. It's an American classic, but to me, it's straight up unsettling.

The idea of our dreams shriveling up to fester and rot

sounds like something out of a body horror film,

but maybe that's because I find few things more disturbing than failed ambitions.

It's a private kind of horror, and the resulting suffering is a very personal hell.

In fact, there's a devil of sorts for ambition, not the devil exactly, but an entity less

mythologized and far more specific, summoned from the depths of our own yearning.

This demon preys on failed dreamers,

sniffing out their anguish, their regret,

and offers them a chance to make it all happen,

at a cost, of course.

It's a relentless and insidious evil,

as old as time itself.

One that will make your dream so real, they become your nightmare.

You're listening to Run Full.

I'm Rodney Barnes, and this is episode 73, demon of deferred dreams.

Almost 20 years ago, I was at the top of my career.

I had everything I had ever wanted and was miserable.

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