Dreams are no more than curses for me. I am not talking about the dreams of the night that spew out all the twisted banalities of our consciences, but those dreams that are woven with our eyes wide open, supposedly driving us to the front battle lines of hope. These dreams fly away almost as soon as I create them. I picture them desperately fluttering their wings to escape the pull of my reality. If they get caught in that current, then they are no more. No longer dreams.
What do they then become? Hope? Doubtful. More likely, disillusionment. Either way, they are no longer dreams. Its best to let them just fly and flutter away to that mysterious place in my soul where the mind and heart have made a pact to imprison the things that hurt me. A sort of dream cage with a little trap door braced for the capture of each and every one. They stay locked away there, safe. Safe from being free, but tormenting me all the same with their constant flapping-each beat of their wings reminding me of my failure to become, to accomplish, to possess-until they tire from the entrapment. Ultimately they lie still, weakening in the recesses.
They cannot hurt me there….