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….
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My words are thrown like stones hitting a wall. They penetrate nothing. They fall to the ground in a pile of rubble. Not even the dust is able to rise around them.
Why do I continue to reach for another stone? Why can I not be released back into the lake of complacency where I was first ensnared? Why must the words be pulled like a child being ripped from a mother's womb? They breathe life and then they must be nursed. They are imperfect. They are demanding. They will ultimately control me.
Have mercy on me. I live in the abyss of mediocrity. This I know. And this I cannot endure.
I reach for another lovely stone...
Why do I continue to reach for another stone? Why can I not be released back into the lake of complacency where I was first ensnared? Why must the words be pulled like a child being ripped from a mother's womb? They breathe life and then they must be nursed. They are imperfect. They are demanding. They will ultimately control me.
Have mercy on me. I live in the abyss of mediocrity. This I know. And this I cannot endure.
I reach for another lovely stone...
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- Toni Tunstall Reyes
- Nashville, Tennessee
- It is never too late to be what you might have been....George Eliot
Yep. Elegant, and painful, perhaps.....
ReplyDeleteI know you a little bit...so I will expand on the couple of adjectives and lone adverb, because you will extract it anyway.
ReplyDeleteAffirmitive! It is everything and more then expected. Visually stylish, in modern simple lines...the words gracefully yet acutely bellowing the blows. Then finally, the possibility of the frail bird finding its flight, its dance, its freedom in your pen.