I woke up from a dream today.
I have just departed from a world unknown, but a world most familiar.
I’ve seen these people before.
In pictures, movies; maybe even in the clouds.
Nothing was real.
I think that’s how I enjoy it most.
I’m here today reiterating these dreams as if I could hold them in the palm of my hand, feel it’s embrace like the wind, and shiver in it’s cold.
Everything was vivid and in color to boundless extent, where I can remember it.
I’m blessed, because I had been there. I am grateful, because I’m still not awake.
What is truth? Who is he? What does he look like?
There is a stumble in our steps;
He clings to our limbs when we face fear eye-to-eye.
We don’t feel brave;
He weighs down our shadow each walking minute.
Our skin is discolored;
He is the lingering decay in our blood,
in our lungs,
under our breath as we utter words.
I encounter these things.
I know he lives in them.
But I know that he will never have the utmost courage to reveal himself.
It seems as if time is moving backwards. Or reestablishing itself. Who said that appearance wasn’t everything?
Maybe I’m the only one who’s changed.
I sat there at the table, nauseated like the night before.
I felt the tremors clenching my stomach;
the rust in my bones finding a deeper home.
All at the thought of what was.
They used to speak in dreams, but as soon as aging caught up to us, we forgot how to listen.