One Day I’ll Write
There is an endless stream of effervescent dreams gushing from my throbbing mind. I’m too timid to catch these floating seeds and plant them to paper. Perhaps too afraid of what may grow?
The most common conflict arises when these dreamy stories end and begin again. There is a thread that goes overboard, lost in the black abyss as my mind floats away into new waters of wonder.
The tether connecting my mind to its future states is chronically being clipped by new dreams, so I never stay long. Life resembles a manic bee sucking the nectar from every blossoming image, the colors painting the interior scape of the soul, returning weeks or months later, if at all.
What composes these imaginings? Lost memories, resuscitated by association, common themes that tie my waking dreams from moment to moment, all give rise to a sense of stability amidst the cool chaos constantly permeating the present.
I have grand narratives to explore, scenes that serenade my sauntering senses as I go about my day, recalling poignant pasts I wish to recreate, and implore, always asking for more.
These are my dreams, where I escape, for better or ill. Or even nightmares that I wish to seize before they stab and squeeze my sanity.
Childhood is a fiction I hold dear, day and night, morning and dusk, pain and pleasure, but never together.
What stories?
What is interesting about a white man?
I am human, more or less, though I’d argue less, though the world would argue more.
I pine and piss away the potential.
Yearning opens doors that disappear upon entry, and possibility opens up before me as new passages appear. The tree of life unfurls its tentacles toward the doting death that crouches and waits for my passing with ever placid patience.
Day one.
What is sublime?
It is everything that is divine.
You cannot hold it, you can only box it in, encircle it in poetry.
What stories to tell?
I was six years old when the doctors notified my mother that their son possessed a deficiency. Bless her soul. Her worst nightmare. Raising three children, mostly alone, while father foraged for business across the state, she was desperate to give us a better life, a better fate. They both were.
And so I saw the doctor and performed all the proper reflex tests, thumping my knee with the rubber mallet, inspecting the holes in my face with that bright light. The stuffy room of strong scents, the crinkling paper under my boyish body.
The next morning my mother produced a small yellow pill from an orange container, and water to wash it down.
I don’t recall the effect of this method of medication. My mind was too young, too naive, too unaware of who I was, or how I was. What is self control to a child who has no idea of self?
I matured alone.
William Dare 