Stream of Consciousness/Insomnia Prose – Just a Flow

I find myself in the night, thinking about the midnight air at places like up high, or on rooftops in the city where moonlight dreams hush down along the blackness of a late night view along the Hudson River.
I find myself reminiscing of things that never really happened yet I reminisce about them as if they were real.
I find myself standing in the late night mindset. I stand where the air is still and the streets are quiet. As I look upwards to the midnight sky, I find myself wondering what happened to the dreams of a life beyond our hopes – or is it better to say the life we hoped for that was beyond our dreams.
Who knows?
Besides, this is just a quick moment of introspection.

And ah, the abstract; the art and the stream of words to empty the soul and fill a canvas. The mood, the thoughts; playing in our mind like a blues or jazz player who hits the notes. We dream this while stargazers and bystanders see life go by – and it’s true, surreal in fact, that life does go by and though nobody wants a war or fight; the romance and the romantics are set to question everything, including their fate or whether or not their fate is real.

What is it though? What is desire? What is a dream, which is not to be confused with the deep-sleep vapor that comes and goes.
Is this more than words can describe? What does it mean to have a big heart?
Are the dreams we have more than the heart can contain?
Do we compare love to the little pictures, such as the warmth of a red stain at the bottom of a wine glass or an unmade bed and a slightly open window, which enacts the movement of the long sheer curtains that sway at the windows – or is this too much of a cliché ?

There are all forms of desire. There are all types of dreams which coincide together in hopes that someday (maybe) this will all come true.
And to this, I say good morning. To this, I say it’s a new day and last night’s troubles do not have to be here with today’s daybreak. I say this yet I find myself standing in the midnight air, looking upwards towards the stars and wondering “Is it me?”
If it is or if it’s not and all that happens is just a chance the universe takes, then what do I do but laugh or cry?
There are so many things I thought I knew – but now I know that we don’t always know so much. Sometimes, we don’t know anything, which is fine. No really. it is.

I find myself thinking about the feeling of grace or the satisfaction of a moment that is so tender and moments like this can be fleeting or too short.
This is what leads people to a fear that the warmth of an occasion might never come this way again. 
But that’s not true.
It only seems this way when we feel pain or panic. It only feels lonely during the slow ticks of the second hand around the clock when the heart is uneasy.
And it’s easy to tell someone. Don’t worry. We’ll get through it.
That doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.
This just means that we’ll have to adapt or change our direction.

I thought I knew more.
I thought we all knew more.
Maybe we do or maybe we don’t.
Maybe we knew the truth all along and we just hoped or held on to have a feeling that was otherwise gone (or evasive).

I think about the blues and the jazz and the symphony in the background of our internal narrative. I’m no Bogart or James Dean or anything of the sort. This is no scene out of a classic like Casablanca. This is not fueled by the hopelessness of a hopeless romantic; but instead, this is just a little talk between a person and the moon. That’s all.

I think about my heartfelt regard for the hope of a downtown, City life, which I’d touched before but never tasted it. At least, not really.
I think about the remedies, which are not always the best choices. And here I am, again, bewildered and hoping, dreaming and bleeding in the midnight glow of a blue moon.
It’s alright.
No, really.
It is.

I’m crazy. Sure.
That’s fine.
I’m crazy because I want to fill a picture with color and be more than a bystander. I want to be in it and by “in it” I mean the world I’ve looked to build.

I want to be more than a witness to a strand of loose confetti on the ground, which apparently escaped the aftermath of a celebration and the tiny white strand on the floor leaves me to wonder, “What’d I miss?”

I tell you
It’s okay to let your heart sing. It’s okay to look up to the sky and tell your secrets to the stars. This is why there are billions of them and why the solar system is so huge. This is because it takes a lot of space to hold the whispers and the screams and the bottled-up dreams.
We have to keep them somewhere.

Do you know what I mean?

It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to think and it’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to look at the stars of find comfort in the sky.
It’s nice to find comfort in the lights that glow like a halo above New York City.
Also . . .
It’s good to find a place where solace and romance interconnect.
It’s good to stay up to watch the sunrise and see the orange glow at the bottom of the horizon. 
That means we can start this over and do something new.
(If you’d like to.)

It’s okay to accept what comes. It’s okay to say goodbye.
It’s okay to change your mind.
And, it’s okay to look up and wonder if the stars translate the same way to someone you love.

It’s okay to start over to make something for yourself.
After all, this is your life
This is you, wanting, hoping, dreaming and ah; but all of this is real.
This is real because you are real. Not fantasy.
I get it. I understand it.

I think I’ll go watch the sunrise now.
I think I’ll say, good morning Tuesday.
Some of us are wondering what you have in store.

Guess we’ll just have to wait and see –

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