Reality

It is not incredibly common to find a book the reminds you of your childhood dreams. Reminders of hidden passageways and daring adventures that make life glimmer with new possibilities.

I found one today, or rather yesterday. I have spent the last 48 hours drinking in this new gem, wholly engrossed in its pages. That is when you know you’ve found a diamond in the rough. When your surroundings take a backseat and your senses are overwhelmed with a new world, a new life.

A book can change a life. Not in any material way but maybe in a way that adds shadow and depth to an imagination, that changes a persons perceptions ever so slightly. It may not be for the better but it is still there.

My book added some depth to my day. A story of a boy, young and brilliant, assailed with tragedy, romance, and the heroism of youth. It made secret passageways and fantastical events seem almost possible again.

It also made me ache for a reality that I can’t reach in my waking hours. Walking home was like coming out of a deep sleep. It started with the strong belief in the impossible and then, as slow as a winters chill, reality crept into the edges of my vision.

Reality is a cruel thing, crueler than any word or person. A word may sting and a person may cause pain for awhile but reality can withstand the breadth of time. Pain will fade but reality is forever a thorn in my side.

Without reality I can have my passageways.

Without reality I can be a child.

Unfortunately, until I can escape reality I will be here and I will continue to dream my own reality.

That Empty Kind of Love

Sorrow is like an ache in my chest.

A black hole of emptiness inside me, stretching through to my fingertips and toes.

Loss clouds my eyes, dulling my senses till there is nothing left.

The bass echoes through my limbs as I twirl in an room full of empty people.

Bodies jostling, shining with sweat, as I try and feel something.

This is why we are here.

To feel something else, something we can’t give ourselves.

It’s an empty love but love nonetheless.

Lights flash, garishly illuminating our swaying bodies, our blank eyes reflecting red, blue, and yellow.

Reaching up towards an empty ceiling, we crow with toxic excitement.

The drums beat with our hearts, taking away our inhibitions.

This is what we want.

This is why we are here.

We are lost but we are together.

Release

Slowly, I will turn my limbs to iron. With this fire I will carve myself out of my prison.

If it takes a day, or a decade. I will be released.

I will walk a path across the world that shimmers with hope and determination.

I will create my own strength. I will end my own suffering.

If I falter or if I fall, I will wrench myself up and shrug off my weaknesses.

My heart will be made of fire and ice. Capricious, yet stolid against my foes.

Even if that foe is the reflection I see in the mirror.

I will crack my own facade and reveal the true self I keep hidden.

It will be glorious.

It will be me.

Déjà vu

Believing in premonitions is like telling someone the weather man is actually a psychic.

I know that the weather man is just a regular John, reading off a teleprompter, because that’s how life works.

Today though, I feel like I glimpsed a fragment of my future.

It felt like strong déjà vu, like catching sight of something through dirty glass.

You know it’s there but you can’t define the edges.

There is a warmly lit kitchen with chestnut benches that are littered with cooking tit-bits and unopened mail. It feels homey, with the warm smell of fresh coffee pervading the space.

The wide, flat tiles are cold again my bare feat and my sweater is itching my neck while I hurry into the kitchen. I look around for something, sorting through different papers on the bench.

Through a french-style window above the sink I can see the garden, leaves still rimmed with frost. Winter is just beginning, the sun would soon melt the ice and enhance the insistent greenness.

Suddenly, something clutches at my jeans, scrabbling to get my attention. A pudgy boy, bundled in clothes grins up at me, hands sticky with honey and crumbs.

Smiling warmly, I reach down and pick up a wriggly mass of happiness.

This is the scene that plays like a broken record, imprinted in my eyelids.

Whether it happens or not, it’s a nice feeling believing that someday your efforts will all be worth it.

Savior

Eagerly, I wait.

Squirming and fidgeting, thinking of how you’ll be or what you’ll look like.

It’s like something just out of your reach, a flash in the corner of your eye.

This feeling of trepidation and excitement.

Whether this is a dream or reality, I don’t mind.

This sweet torture caresses my mind, unconscious or awake.

You’ll hold my hand, smile at me gently, even berate me for my eagerness.

I know you’re coming but I can’t stand this waiting.

It might actually be killing me. My soul was torn in half when we were born.

Whether it was on the same day or years apart, we were meant for each other.

Like an old Greek myth, we will meet and we will become whole again.

My mysterious savior, I hope you’re searching for me because I am searching for you.