A Written Dream

I think about the places I have been to and places I have never seen. I also think of places that I’ve only dreamed of and hope to visit someday. I imagine myself elsewhere, at someplace that I’m not even sure if it truly exists.
Perhaps this place only exists to me. Or maybe I pictured this from a piece of literature, read from one of the great poets, like my favorite, Kerouac, or someone like him.
Either way, I see myself somewhere far from my usual routine and visiting an unknown crevice of the world that has not been been bordered by some man made boundary . Maybe I could be near the border, between reality and my dream. Perhaps I can see is the Gulf of Mexico from where I’d stay and the shoreline to a land of a country I know so little about.

I imagine the people and their tanned colored skin; their deep and dark eyes, So moving, so emotional, like a painting I once saw of a little boy, standing outside of his family’s shack. Eyes like slits, shaped like almonds with thick black hair, like Indians, like the natives they appear to be, which is what they are. I would imagine they have ancestry that links back to this land, long before my kind ever came here.

I want to go to a place where I can find a small town and be welcomed. I want the language barrier to be more like a friendly gesture of movements and expressive hand gestures. I want to sit with people so warm and kind, so easy to be with, and so eager to share their culture with me.

Of all things, there is one thing that is true and universal. To feed someone; to break bread, to eat and share a meal; to have a hot bowl of soup or a cup of tea—or more accurately, and in my case, a cup of coffee, black, no sugar. We could sit together, all of us as perfect strangers, to realize and to celebrate the one universal truth, which is yes, food is love.

I wonder what the sunset would look like in a town like this. I wonder about the great plateaus and the empty lands with cactus plants in the vast and desolate deserts that stretch over from Texas to Old Mexico.
I wonder what the air must smell like or what the sun feels like as if beats down upon my skin.

I think of me here, in love, or “Amore,” as they would say; with the key element of the word being “More” because we always want more.
Don’t we?
More love. More Life. More times for living—more moments under the sun and more time to count the feathery clouds as they float across the sky before the sunset falls.

We all want more. We want more times to walk along a white sand beach, which is vacant and empty—or, at least it is in my dreams, empty and vacant, I mean.
To me, this place is untouched and unmolested.
I want to find a place like this with water in the bay so clean and clear, as in see-thru, and close to the color of emeralds.
The surf itself is calm here, welcoming, and gentle too, like the oldest, living loved one in the family; the matriarch, welcoming me home after being lost and gone for far too long.

I am in my own estimation, no different but yet, no better or worse than anyone else. I am like the prodigal son, himself. I feel as though I have wandered and straggled off. I can see where I have wasted and squandered my wealth—and now it’s me, in need of work and shelter; in need of redemption and in need of salvation. I am, as it seems, a sheep that had wandered too far away from his flock.

In my haste, I forgot to leave a trail. This is how I was lost. No breadcrumbs to lead me back home; no reparations for the bridges that I burned upon my departure. All I have left is my humility and the understanding of how far I strayed

At last, I go back (in my dreams, I mean)
I go back in my mind to a place I have only wished for—perhaps a little island where the land is beautiful, somewhere off the coast.
I can see myself here (with you of course) and nothing else whatsoever. No interruptions. No molestation of man-made wrongs and man-made projects—no technology, no distractions. Nothing. Just the land, the sea nearby, and the sky above.

I want to see me here, welcomed into the bosom of the Great Mother, Mother Earth, alive in her land and welcomed home like a child of the world.
I want to feel my own resurrection and my own redemption, which, as I have told you before, has nothing to do with anyone else’s response.

I ran away for a long time in my life. It seems as though I was always running from something to avoid the up and coming, or the impending doom, like a storm cloud, chasing behind me with such urgency that my legs cannot outrun its path. I always ran from but I never ran towards, which was my problem because I could never see my direction with one eye always looking over my shoulder.

I always wanted this, by the way. To be free. To be rid of this false perception of self. To feel cleansed as if to be placed beneath the waterfall of Mother’s clear, clean reservoir.
I’ve always wanted this vision, which I own and can see as clear as day—although, truthfully, who knows if this place even exists.
It does to me though—even if only in my mind, this place is something I built as my own vision. I had to build this because otherwise, I might find myself disrupted (or distracted) by the ugliness that not all friends are friendly. Not all people are kind. And not all smiles are what they seem to be.
But me, here, all is real. All is well. All is perfect.

Have you ever seen a little cabin in a clearing, like say, somewhere near the rain forest?
Well, I haven’t.
At least, not exactly.
Truth be told, I dream of this place often. I dream of me approaching the tiny home with a faded brown leather satchel hung over my shoulder with scraps of paper and tales, written about my trip as I smile and say, “This must be where the chapter ends . . .”

So a new one can begin—

Image result for house in the rainforest

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