A Poem, A Symphony, and A Dream

The sky is blue now and perhaps we have grown beyond our differences from this time last year. Perhaps we’ve improved or at least I hope we have.
I am watching the sunlight as it beams over the large old trees that stand tall behind the small chapel, which has been in my town much longer than you or I have been alive.
It is a moment that we share, now, in the early morning sunlight which has just risen above the horizon. It is warm which shows promise to the warmer weather that has yet to come.
It’s not here yet. But summer will be soon enough. I know it. And so do you.

I can think of countless places where I could be right now. Each is different – like you or me, different which is fine, which is something to celebrate. To me, this is something like watching the fireflies when they come around for the first time since last season.

I can think of the warmth of the sun in places where I’ve never been. I can think of the waves and how they fall on the shoreline and the surf allows for a quietness that is undeniable and true.
Sometimes, words needn’t be said. Just felt.
I can think of the love in my heart, which beats further and for more; or, which beats for the excess of love, which is unstoppable – which is not to say that my love is abundant or better than you or anyone. No. All I am saying is I am a simple person, here, right here and there are times when the bewilderment of life is enough to distract me. More so, there are times when the challenges of the day can seem insurmountable or just too much. And I find myself with my eyes up to the heavens asking, “What am I missing?”
“What am I doing?”
“What is it? Tell me!”

I suppose the strain in my heart is why I think of places that I have never been to and never seen. I only know about them through books or pictures and the tales from other people; therefore, I dream of them.
I picture them and imagine myself in places like the outside of a church I once saw in a picture from Europe. I believe this was Italy. The cobblestones are more historic than anything I could possibly comprehend. These are old world artifacts; alive, and in person.
The ruins. The Coliseum. The Sistine Chapel and the Hand of God, The Vatican, or better yet, the Mediterranean Sea, the coasts, the islands. Or wait, no.
There’s more.

There are places such as the shores in Spain; Burriana, Nerja, or Cala D’en Serra, Ibiza, or La Concha. Or, if not, and even simpler – perhaps a drive would suffice. Perhaps a drive in a convertible down south or say, across the seven mile bridge – or better yet there are places which I have heard about and pictured somewhere along the Gulf of Mexico.
And Mexico, it’s a pretty word to me.
So is the idea of the Gulf, a pretty word, a place of pacification, a moment of pardon where the heart can unfold without caution and there are no prying eyes or judgements. Just freedom and the warmth from the sun. This is pretty to me.
Then again, perhaps all of this is nothing more than pretty words strung together. At least they are to me – and if so; if this is all it is then so be it.
If this is only a dream, then so be it a dream but at least I have it. At least, let me dream. At least allow me my thoughts so that I have this picture, which can otherwise intercept the missiles of our common-day destructions.

Better than my hopes of seeing a show in the dead-center of central Park and better than my aspirations of finding the right tune for a song that fits this occasion, let me be here at the square root of my equation; therefore, let this be me – eternal, eventual, ongoing and unending.
Let this be my poem. Let this be my salvation and redemption. Therefore, let this be my reward for the battles that never needed to happen because at last, I have found my way and set my place in the circle.

Let me see this. Let me have this.
Let me create something to yearn for, to live for and even to die for because to me, having these dreams is more than just a dream.
Having these little pockets in my mind are enough to fill my heart when the emptiness comes – or when the doubt begins, having these fragments of imagination are life support to me. This is my way of contending with the loud beeps and and honks of daily-grind taxi cabs, swerving through streets in the midst of midday, red-light, green-light, 1, 2, 3 – this is my way through daily aggression and kamikaze pedestrians who lack the ability to say “pardon” or “excuse me.”

Rather than this, I’d much prefer a cold drink or the feeling of a glass in my hand. Fill it up. Fill it with anything, I don’t care – so long as the ice touches my lips and the drink quenches my thirst and as the beads of sweat drop from my forehead, I can be like “Ah,” and feel relieved. 

I am simple and real. I am no different from anyone.
I am only a person. Or better yet, I am someone who is looking. I am searching. I am an open vessel; however, sometimes our openness subjects us to the contaminants around us. Toxins and impurities always look for souls who weep – and broken souls, they are a danger to us. They are the dangerous ones, always looking to grab a fix, always looking to use what they can find and take what you cannot afford to lose. The world swims with people like this. Not everywhere. But still, there’s enough to know why empaths bleed openly and why others breathe out so the people around them can breathe in.

Either way, the truth about life is more often than not, there are no victims…only volunteers. And quite often, the two need each other – the hunter needs the prey and the prey need the hunter to give them both a purpose.
But what I am saying?
Do you know?
I suppose what I’m trying to share is sometimes, as open as we are, there are those who look to take – there are those who look to steal; there are those who thieve beauty. If allowed, there are those who would swipe the turquoise from the lagoons and those who would rob the stars from the sky – if they could. Just for themselves. Just because they could. The true crime is that once the novelty wore off; once the diamonds lost their glimmer – the theft would be tossed away like nothing but a deflated dream that once had meaning.

I see more now.
I see more about what love is and how hope is bravery and that hope is always yearning to dare. I see that my love is only as strong as my willingness to submit to it.
And sometimes, my love is scared.
Or, is it me – am I too afraid to try or too afraid to reach out?
Is it that I am afraid that should I reach, I can only reach so much and for so long; only to have what I reach for become distant like a mirage or an illusion. Then I see it shrivel or fade from my touch and thus, I see why people never dare. I understand the rejection of shame I understand the reason why little kids cry when no one picks them to be on their team.

I see why people never try. I see why people never dare to speak or celebrate because in the face of emptiness, there sits the heart of a small child, not cared for, not played with, unwanted, and exposed in plain sight.

I see this. In fact, I know this well because this is me – I am a scared boy. However, I am grown. I am no longer small (or weak) but I am often unaware of my strengths or ability.
I am often unaware that a smile or say, a dance in the middle of Lincoln Center, for example, during a summertime sunset in New York City, or say, a walk to anywhere with a bottle of anything and a snack to share (as well as my heart) is something that is more than life support to me.

No. . .
This is so much more.
To me, this is the retirement of a soldier who never wanted to fight to begin with – and yet, the battle wounds are scars that no one sees are less of a mark and even less of a memory.
All of the aftermath could rest. Yesterday could resign from our attention and going forward, the peace treaty would allow us to separate from the old as we enter the new. 

The easiness of a moment as simple as a night at a festival, regardless of where, or perhaps my idea of being somewhere to hear an outside symphony from an orchestra beneath the stars – a banquet, a black-tie affair, a sound of soft soprano voices, singing gently, sweetly and the moon over us, big and full – this is something to me.

I don’t have much.
But I do have this.

A dream . . .

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