A little bit of pain in a random sort of way
I have found dreams are funny little snipets of sparkle that tend to weave in and out, much like fire flies. Whether or not that makes particular sense to anyone but me is really not a bother. Fire flies can always be caught of course, but if you wish for the fire to really stay alive for very long, cealing the poor little thing in a mason jar with holes is, in my opinion, not at all the solution. And dreams...dreams seem to be much the same way in that respect just as much as the darting sparkle. But this is a new theory for me. I had always assumed that dreams should be held ever so tightly, clasp between fingers of concrete so no one or nothing could tear them away. However, it seems I was wrong, as I usually am. Dreams are so much more. Holding them can only be just so great. But freeing them can be greater. I had always thought to pursue a dream and stay strictly focused was the responsible thing and highly dependable. But then what is a dream if it cannot fly to the outrageous pieces of our mind to only float to the surface momentarily for us to barely grasp? Dreams are what create passion and if passion was as planned as the 'focused dream' I had always been taught to pursue...then is passion real? What is the reasoning? And even then why should there be reasoning? It is a dream after all. And yet, regardless of what I had thought and now think and what it is I might begin to fathom in the future, I am still the silly little girl with a silly little poem and a paper with a grade that means little to the grader and even less to the class. I have lost my wonder and yet gained so much more of what it is I have lost. But instead of naive wonder it is knowing wonder...and it is dreadfully beautiful and painful in all it's gravity. People will disregard much of what I write not realizing how much of it is what I wish to SAY. Where they practice gossip in the hallway I write in the forms of lines and words and stories. Although what they speak can be forgotten in an instant as many have as bad of memories as I, mine can last a lifetime. And once upon a time I had wished for that very thing, and now I wonder what gave me such an idea as to allow my words to be tacked on the wall for what could have been a moment of shame in the hallway, a lifetime of reminder on the board.
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