Scraping back the detritus of conformity, aborted dreams, and superficial survival. The script is not mine, I borrowed it from one of the many plays performed in front of me, in books, movies, and in the grand stage of the home of my youth. Foreshortened future, that was a symptom, all hope sterilized, no will to think that tomorrow is a viable possibility. With no tomorrow available in my mind, I grabbed anything available, not my dreams, I possessed not the capability to birth those; but dreams birthed by other souls, who fate bestowed with that capability. I took hold of the dream of a family. Years later, memories evade me, nothing but a handful from all those moments. Next, a dream of religion. Another tragedy of errors, it seemed that I believed too much, a cultist obsession is the adopted child left after true faith leaves. What about belonging? To anything? I laughed as group after group, clique after clique, pushed me away. Finally I came to the end of my chasing. Self destruction, that calling accepted me, pulled me close, and loved me with the hate I was accustomed to. That is where I find myself, scraping back the detritus of conformity, aborted dreams, and superficial survival, playing in the puddle of tears, long ago cried, never again to grace my face with those salty trails. Forcing my mind to comprehend dreams, so difficult a process, full of discouragement, with disappointment a commonplace drama, I breathe. Pushing forward, whatever direction that may be, going backwards seems comforting at times. I live in the present, my dreams scripted daily, then burned at the alter of change every evening. Is being nothing that can be defined, anything at all?
First written in opinionsofeye.com