I was describing a dream
to a coworker
and he stopped me and said,
“this is all in your dream, right?”
I said,
“yeah,”
and he said,
“man you have some vivid dreams,
how can you have so much detail in a dream?”
I said,
“I don’t know, I just do.”
We went back to work
and I thought,
my dreams are more impressive than my real life.
No one has ever interrupted my life in progress
to tell me how awesome I am
or how vivid my life is
but I describe a dream and I blow someone’s mind.
It is often asked how to realize your dreams…
I just need to realize my life.
The dreams are too much.
I am trying to be
philosophical about things,
to have a broader appreciation
of the world.
I get stressed
by the length of a work day
or the brevity of time off.
Instead of finding self
in these moments,
living inside the events,
I feel more like a prisoner
than a participant.
All I can see
is how much I want to be
somewhere else,
and this obliterates
any positive takeaways.
There are moments,
like sun piercing the clouds,
when I pause and find
I have arrived
in the moment,
in the middle of
the now,
and can reflect
on the day.
But they are too damn few
and far between…
instead
it’s mostly a desire
to head to the exit.
My greatness,
if there is any,
lies not in my mind
but in my actions.
Great thoughts alone
are useless…
if left idle.
So with greatness
being measured
by my accomplishments
it would appear
I am impotent.
I have done naught
but wait
on greatness to occur,
never taking the lead.
There is
a deepening sadness
in that…
but then, for that,
there is beer.
There may be little
that is as sad
or euphoric
as first snowfall.
Your adult mind returns
to the mystery of childhood
and a day spent romping
and exploring
places familiar
now made new
by a dusting of white.
As it is now
I cannot help but see
the slush and gray
of the early snow
as afternoon closes,
like the joys of childhood
long receded
that way too.
The world exists
and
it must be acknowledged.
The waters rock the boat
and shift the sails
and we move
with the motion,
powerless
and often enamored.
When life does this
we fight back.
These waters will move
and so too we…
to fight
or seek rhythm…
a choice.
I will write myself notes
that I know
I will never need…
the act
of having written
is all that I need.
My mind
will recall
not the original need
but merely
the note….
It is all the same;
I will remember.
I want to write,
“I am God:
sacrosanct
and infinite;
a world within myself.
I am unyielding,
and without fault.”
This,
I hope,
I will recall,
without needing
to remember.
It is a folly…
I have written too many notes
that speak
to the opposite,
and have heard
too many heckles
to counter it.
Ink (flows, stains). 