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Array
(
[sid] => 38334
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A walk to taste a dream
[time] => 2004-03-12 05:17:35
[hometext] => Anyone who has read my writing before, should be at home with this. (mainly Dan and Dani… glad to see you’re still here!)
[bodytext] => Another day lived as I stare at it through the window, my confinement here is by choice, as it seems I have nothing to offer outside. I’ve had my world breathe and beat, and then fall and dissipate in my own hands. Like dirt. Two hundred days since I’ve stepped outside of this room, sometimes it seems like I’ve got no feeling left, and there is nothing more anyone can take from me. This feeling is not fear, nor diamonds, and tastes like the solid fire, where the fuel for this is memory treats. And one of my wishes is that my memory would begin to fail me on a Sunday. Though any day would suffice. When someone you love is stolen from you, your eyes react first. Sometimes with tears, sometimes with anger, when eyes are fuelled by feelings, they suddenly convey every emotion you dispel. All in a second. All at once. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get the chance once again to taste a dream, and if I cannot be granted one of my own, then perhaps I will be able to meet someone who can describe one from their world, with all the splendour of its subconscious constructed beauty, word, for word, for word…or is this also, simply too much to ask? The decision to leave everything to chance, may not be the scripted way to live, yet whose decision is it to make but mine? I am beginning to wonder if a dream will ever fall in to my hands… and on the strength of this dance, I feel as if I must tumble from my mountain, and draw so much air from the outside into my lungs, that the stiches would fall away. This time I shed my dusty blanket, and it dissolves before the floorboards are given their chance to claim it. Light flashes around the seam of the door, as I float outside oxygen sticks to my skin, it feels like it has been untouched always, as all the air from inside was stale and reminded me of cardboard. My mind is has worlds of thoughts compressing inside it, some only come to me briefly, and then disappear forever, luckily they meant nothing to me anyway. It feels good to walk, good to move, I long to find a body of water to walk alongside, as I fell that when I write this down, my cliché of someone lonely, will be more believable if I were following along a waters edge. And unbelievably, just as I want it… it comes. Isn’t it funny how fiction works out for us sometimes. If only we could all choose when to discover our water, though I guess all that would be is greedy. A short break is just what I have always wanted, or at least this is what I have managed to convince myself. I sit in the grass, my arms are outstretched, and all of the birds look at me with their heads to one side, they are looking a little perplexed, even distressed. And then they all fly away in unison, and I have never once witnessed anything like this. Though it occurs to me that this could have been a metaphor for people just not caring enough about anything that doesn’t directly effect them. Or it could just be something that had happened… either way I am moved. As I continue to walk along beside the river, the water flows with ambivalence, and how can that be? The fish jump freely, repeatedly showing their grace… still, they continue their display unaffected, even though my expression clearly shows my disapproval. This section of riverbank is safe no longer, I grasp the hand from the shadows, and as it draws me towards solitude, the black fear in my stomach proceeds to evaporate. As I watch it float away, I pause, and realize how much of a weight has been lifted, and the aspects of everything have now changed, how had this place previously managed to hide from view? If I didn’t continue to feel empty, then this may have been an epiphany… nonetheless; I continue to taste the crying. Each time I wake I am forced to take a solitary breath… the air here seems so thick to me, when in reality is nothing more than tranquillity filled by a thousand and one limp and flailing ghosts that twist and fall without a care for observers, as they have not a need for acceptance. Sometimes I wish that breath would never come; yet it always does, and each sunrise I am haunted. I only wish that I could explain my feelings, the paint is out, though this page fails to hold my heart… I guess I must be tired, and I know what loneliness is… my world… is indeed a sad one, that I will always belong to… and forever wish I didn’t. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 312 [topic] => 25 [informant] => damon_maynard [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => MiscPoems )
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