nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Dreams/Nightmares - ORIGINAL PROSE

I'd love to sail the world, I'd love to learn to fly, I'd love to fly higher than the birds up into the sky, or ride the waves like it came so naturally to me, though I never thought it possible for myself, for this person who sits and writes only as a way to live a million lifetimes, as far from her current life as humanly possible. I learn to smile, I learn to laugh, I learn to put one foot in front of the other, but how far can I go? How far can I travel on broken legs and broken hearts, as my smiles remain fractured, splinter, uncomfortable, painful to the touch, yet still I wear them, they wear me, they wear me down to the bone as I carry the burdens of the world, as it begins to wear me down, push me down to my knees as I beg for something, anything to make me feel human, more than a thing, less of a god, as though my feet remain upon the ground, as I find my head drifting further and further into the clouds above?

It is my head, my head so far above, my head full of things it should not so, my head full of dreams, my head full of nightmares, and still I dream my dreams at night, which only come together as mismatched memories as it draws on subconscious moments mundane and trivial, once thought to be of no importance whatsoever, until it comes the basis for monstrosities and other creatures of horror to torment me behind my eyes.

And now I am awake, and all I can think about are those moments, and how I wish to return to the world I had created, for it feels safe, familiar in the madness my mind had created, had manufactured in its unconscious absurdity, but still I find myself facing the day, and so I write such absurdities in prose and poetry, in rhyme and rhythm, in words which only seem to make sense to myself and the select few who understand, who also carry the burdens of an unforgiving world; I wish to live forever, for all time, for an eternity and a day in this world of fiction, of make-believe and pretend, as a cushion for the blows of a world which only seeks to take and take, to slice pieces of my soul off one portion at a time, until nothing remains from which to draw upon for the mad, yet so utterly beautiful creative process.

And now I write, as the words of another ring through my mind, as my ears consume the lyrics, so poetic in their honesty, so raw in the beauty they possess, as I am inspired yet again to write, to document the process of a mad, such a mad mind, yet so necessary for the sanity of the being which commands these fingers to type, this mind to think, this body to breathe, this mouth to speak and these eyes to cry, such salty, bitter tears, yet so happy to have held onto my passion for so long, yet so saddened that another knows what it feels like to live and love, to never to be able to hold their heart back, to pour their soul into everything they do, to give their everything to what they do/love, and to have the bravery to share such ideas, such thoughts vulnerable with the world, for all its own share of bitterness, vitriol and regret it has to cling onto, only to then spread, to infect others like a poison to the creative mind.

I wish to sleep, but am compelled by forces beyond my reckoning to document such philosophical insights, no matter if others read them, understand them, feel just as I do, who know what it means to stay wide awake to keep those monstrous forces at bay, only to see those you have tried to run from, moments which weigh heavily on the mind, heart and soul to manifest in all their raw, unfiltered ugliness/brutality in the dark of your room, with only me, myself and I as the audience to cry, laugh and applaud not necessarily in that order. I wish to sleep, but it makes no difference either way, for these are my curses/blessings, and I am compelled to follow them to their beautifully bitter end.