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This is why I don't read my facebook newsfeed anymore

Dream the differences

Be patient with your immaterial dreams. Our spirits always need time. Watch your wildest dreams come true. Savour the ensuing shivers of excitement. Dare to chase your impossible dreams. You might catch them. And keep your discarded dreams enclosed in a secret box. So you can still open it again one day.

Oh metaphor, I've missed you.

Concrete steps, half wet from the remnants of melting snow, make a nice smoking spot. Nothing too spectacular about them, or the scenery they provide. It’s Canadian suburbia, neat rows of family homes nestled in side-by-side. It seems like everyone has a minivan, and a big, loud, white truck. Not surprising for super-moms and oil rich Alberta boys (the ‘grown up’ versions).

 So I find myself on some damp steps, watching smoke swirl away through this picture of domestic paradise…and I still feel like… something is missing.

 I look to the setting sun, and laugh. Of course.

 The neighbour on my left has a rather ugly thicket of branch-like trees lining the edge of his property, and the sun sets right behind them. Through those branches, I can see my preferred version of suburbia. The one with pieces missing. Not just behind trees, but every little thing we can’t see, behind all the beautiful doors and windows. Each one covering up all the secrets, the lies, the scandals, the anger, the sex. 

And the love.

 The kindness and the patience enclosed in lace curtains. The beauty of what I already knew, vividly contrasted against the poetry of what I didn't know, and would never know. Missing pieces of my setting sun, inspired a profound image of individuality.

 I am not a box. I am a million pieces of cardboard… most of which, no one else will ever see. Even if I could write down every one of my experiences, choices, adventures, thoughts, and memories, at every point in my life… they would still be incomplete. I can’t write the smell of the river-bank flowers from my childhood home.

But I can remember.

No one, not my parents, my siblings, or even my son.. will EVER know who I really am. Their version of me, and your version of me, is missing pieces.

 It’s a setting suburban sun seen through the shadows of tree branches.

The best conversations create bridges between impossible thoughts... piecing together distinctly separate worlds and unravelling a beautiful dose of reality.

snap*

sweat soaked sadness

A sadistic mystic,
Resisting the crypt of existing.
Overwhelmed realms of my mind,
Imagining magical signs.
Unravelling misery’s mysteries.
And dreaming them
Undefined.
My knotted thoughts
Can be caught,
Exhausted , lost and forgot.
I’ve mixed tricks to fix bliss
But lost grip.
Too many words eclipsed
And dismissed.

 Petulant intelligence is irrelevant.
Only evidence of reckless emphasis.

Most of my thoughts and consequently, my words... are metaphors. It’s a language of pictures, an old tune on a jukebox, the smell of a rainstorm, the taste of a memory,  the touch of your favourite lover. 

Starving.

A desolate angel quivers beside me, starving. Swallowed whole by her desire to see the truth. Addicted to the possibility of tangible love, but fated instead to suffer through an ethereal sense of enchantment. The world’s tyranny eats her dreams. Corruption of thought pollutes her compassion. Empathy bleeds through her, unsaid... and unnoticed. The advantages of apathy are overwhelming, and for her... impossible.

Wrapped in masks and shadows, I can’t see her face... but I can feel her scars. Ghosts of her past are here too, breathing new nightmares... chasing her tears further into oblivion. She can’t hide forever, but she wants to. Building self impressions can take years, but devouring them... only seconds.

 Broken mirrors reflect a broken soul, aching to be put back together. But where are all the pieces? How would she know if they fit? What if the final impression... wasn’t enough to satisfy her insatiable appetite for sincerity? Who was she? Under all the pre-text, all the disillusions and fantasies... was her reality malleable, and left to interpretation? Or does reality belong to everyone?

 What if everything tastes the same as nothing?

I can forget the intangible and chase after sober dreams sometimes... but even those mere fragments of reality can always be somehow spun back into illusive fairytales.