The only dream worth having…is to dream that you will live while you’re alive and die only when you’re dead…
Color bid adieu to the sky and the sea, as the vivid tangerines and violets and pinks were slowly syphoned out from the tufts of clouds sailing around the shimmering sun. The magnificent, towering palm trees on the distant island began to char even as heat retreated into the other half of the world, becoming blackened silhouettes. The realm of darkness had returned. And here she was, a ghost.
Aghast. A ghost.
Summer descended upon her and sank its searing claws into her brain, fracturing the tender connections between her several and swirling thoughts. She squinted against the shard of light that streamed through the dusty, blotched glass pane. Had she been reposing in an air-conditioned, neutrally toned room that was scrubbed and vacuumed and polished and mopped to a degree of pristine perfection, would her mind have been a tad bit less cluttered? Had she not been rocking to the blithe rhythms of this ancient bus, one that was in effect, a furnace on wheels, would some clarity have graced her musings again? Continue reading
“The Moon sings to me, and sends me glowing pillows carrying sugar-cube dreams for my heart.”
I proclaim to myself. Yet, what I see as unassailable actuality is, in fact, merely an optative reverie.
Spread across the ominous sky- it’s colors never dark enough to be black, and never a shade even remotely as discernible as the most treacherous indigo- are the sprightly stars, amused at the austerity of their own mother fabric, the vast sky that has cradled them since time was an infant.
They know my dreams, and they know yours. Perhaps their delight arises from the knowledge that they’re a part of all those dreams, and the ones our minds spin into a gossamer cocoon of repose to screen ourselves from the overwhelming heat of the sun, right when it reigns over us diminutives.
It seems as if just yesterday, the world was a benevolent place. To dream was to realize, and thus there existed no encumbering fear.
Fear is now a living entity.
Fear of good as well as bad. The bad is feared for what it is, and the good is feared for its softening touch, its gentle nudge that knocks over the strongest walls baked by betrayal and other obsidian encounters- leaving the one behind those walls out in the open, vulnerable in her ephemeral respite. Continue reading