Dreamcatcher The world stinks of settling. Roads of dreams become parking lots and vacant land for building a resemblance of comfort, a shelter from risks of failure masqueraded as successful attempts to breathe a minute above survival. The cozy home by the sea appears desired, yet the true yearning is not staying above water, rather avoiding the uncertainty of swimming in the vastness placed before your eyes. The abandoned dream chasing conditions the lungs, just enough to confess stories of something wanted once upon a time. Rosebuds gathered in adolescence only to leave a dying trail to weary eyes and wrinkled skin that once wanted a sip of the impossible, with lips that spat on that word decades before the non existent finite number of tries in life. Life that breaks the spirit if allowed, with only skills to accept and adapt as consolation. What of the dream? I ask. A dream on hold is a breath held And all the laws of nature and death apply. Soon, it is blue in the face and still. Substituted by the warmth of a lover, pride of a paycheck, and contentment of a life lived in some way, anyway at all so long as progress makes an appearance. Reincarnated as a life of marriage and monogamy, creating progeny to provide for, to live vicariously through. A tender life, a gentle existence not without its rewards... But how does one truly live without it? Without the thrill of chasing it to death? Without the ache of almost touching it leading to another days worth of breathing? And the good father, good husband, good man, that grew from the little boy with hundreds of toy rockets, who only drank Tang, still sleeps peacefully, but only when clouds hide the stars from him. And the good mother, good wife, good woman, that grew from the little girl with thousands of sketch books and paint covered overalls still sleeps soundly, but only when its too dark to see colors and patterns. And they slumber in love, in life, with a dreamcatcher hung upside down above their headboard Hoping it will allow everything through except the sights that hurt them most in sleep, the beautiful images of who they once were and could have been.
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 17:42:18 +0000
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