Life · Writing

dream to write, or write to dream?

Today was one of those days.

You know the type.

The kind where your mind floated away just as fast as the sun, and somehow you found yourself walking home along lamp lit, cobbled streets, one earbud in place and the other construing sounds of all the people you’ll never meet.

And suddenly you found yourself back in the kitchen with shoes kicked off, and just as you drifted through the world of all-the-things you need to write, dinner was burnt and the room filled with smoke. Dry, hazy remnant sifting through the curtained close of today’s story.

You sprinkle half-cooked carrots, as the stinging discovery of the true meaning of a salt licked wound burns from above.

And in this instant, you want to give up.

You want to stop the madness.

Let go of the despair.

The ache, the itch, the crawling skin. Shed it all till it’s gone, so you can live the rest of your days in peace.

Because what’s the point of all the trouble?

Why the angst? Why the fear? Why the disillusioned hope that one day all of this will matter?

All you hear now is silence.

Crickets.

A dog yapping in the distance.

And you realize his voice is really just jibberish, anyhow. You feel annoyed at him. Just as you do the people on your path, today. Because when you stop feeling lifted up or pushed along by their cheers and their doubts, their yips and their yaps, you realize what you must have always known.

That behind every voice that tells you ‘you can’t,’ is really just your own.

Every naysayer and ‘get-a-real-job’-er moves from puppeted strings directed by an unsteady hand that jerks, twists, and turns.

Every disbeliever and believer alike dance to the same exact song whispered from your very lips.

Each and every one of them a smoky figment.

Each one a dream as still unborn.

And in this moment, you realize, you can let go of the dream.

Because dreams are meant to be held loosely, anyway.

And these dreams built on sandcastles have no lasting value, swept away by the shore. On this very shoreline, you begin to walk.

First one foot, and then another.

And as the waves wash away every print, the steps begin to mean less and less.

Just as each one carries all the weight of the world.

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