Letting my mind get polluted with dreams is a favourite past time of mine.
Dreams, they seep in like a fog, drug-induced almost leaving me plastered with a face-splitting smile. As the clichéd adage goes, the fog dissipates, and I’m left with the mess I’ve made chasing dreams like they were butterflies, trampling on the moss and grass, stomping my feet in mud as I make my way to something that was meant to be absolution.
Absolution. Being a dreamer has never felt any more fulfilling. The rush of heart-bursts you get from understanding life as it is, and the way it is meant to be. The picture that the dusty mist had painted in your head. The colours were vivid, and they spoke to you like the first time you learnt how to read.
And then I look back, at the many mud-steps I’ve left behind. I skipped a few paces, and I stood around a little too long at some spots, when I could’ve walked one straight line.
Then I find that I’ve lost my way.
“What’s the matter? You sound sad.”
Though she did not see it, it was the crack and rivulet that gave me away.
It was a frustration to search and yearn, desolate without faith, an empty laugh. Hollow and bare: like the dreams I sloshed through the mud for. Wasted time, clear skies made way for disappointment, instead of a blue slate I could paint my own clouds on.
Perhaps if I just looked ahead, and sporadically at my hands, and then at my feet, I’ll see where I’m going. If I get myself there one day and know that my head’s with me, it won’t matter if it has a fog or not. I’ll know that mountains, clouds, streams and rays can join me and the fog, as long as I’m living my dream.