fragment of a random dialogue on getting over it

She spat angrily at him, “That’s easy for you to say, “ eyes blazing she struggled with her fury “You have no idea-“
“No,” he cut her off, “I don’t. No one does.” He continued strumming on the guitar. “It isn’t meant to be harsh, but it’s necessary.”
“How?” She asked, still incensed but the luminous quality to her eyes belied her emotions. He never stopped playing but did meet her gaze.
“One day.” He said softly. “Just make it one day.”
“And?” she snapped but couldn’t mask her curiosity.
“Then one more.” He smiled sadly. “Keep going. Then some day-“ He grinned now. “Someday you just wake up and see the world again.”

i had a dream last night

It was bizarre. Terrible and wonderful, it (like so many of my dreams), made me feel that waking pulled me from another reality. And no I was not on drugs. When I have these I am certain I am supposed to write them down, which I do, but I don’t finish them. I don’t flesh them out, adding details and depth. I’m hoping to change that. There is no urgency once I have recorded the basics; if I have notes I can recall the dream, the story and the feeling it wrought.

My dream last night had me shifting perspectives (as usual) and when I jotted down the details to help me remember, they became a poem of sorts. Strange I know but the whole thing struck me in such I way that I felt I had to share. Though it is hardly my best work.

It was very sad. But so beautiful, I wish I could give you more details than the poem reveals. Mayhap in time I will finish this story.

Notes on a dream, night of May 30, 2007

First I was the mother,
Choosing men over my child,
Sending him away, alone.

Then I was the child –
My own friend, playing with ants
And imagining armies.

Then I was the woman,
Childless, finding my family in a lonely boy,
Loving him as his mother never could.

Finally I became the observer,
Watching the sweet and sad reunion of
True mother and child mistakenly born to another.

untitled bit of prose

"He was thirty years old. No young swain or avenging son. Those dreams were dead. He had made the decision long ago, as most of us do, to let go of childish fantasies, no matter how true, how blazing and pure and right they seemed. Because it hurt too much. To survive and stay present he had to let go.

Slowly he exchanged wishes for workdays, dreams for dollars. Because it hurt too much. He couldn’t stay sane waiting for fairies and dragons while balancing chequebooks and working overtime. He stopped staring at the stars, searching for a glimpse of something. Something big and secret, fantastic and grand. Something wonderful. It hurt too much."


Sad isn’t it? It nearly broke my heart to write it, almost like I was giving something away. Don’t worry though, methinks he may be in for a surprise….heh….