Life ended when I dreamt you.
Life ended when I dreamt you.
Is it wrong to wish to write for writing’s sake? Is it wrong to feel the need to write a disclaimer only I’ll ever see?
I sometimes think I was born to the wrong era, that before computers and watches knew your name, I might have been happy. I’d have sat in my room as others scampered about living their lives and smiled at the view beyond the window, written down what I saw without forethought or fear. The clouds would’ve drifted across cerulean fields like mythical beasts and birds would’ve tweeted the minutes. With a quill for a sword and a wooden chair for a colt, I’d have lived out my days as a warrior of words and others would’ve been happy I did. But it isn’t days of yore, and there’s no time for idealism in today’s world of exactitudes and uncompromising rapport. We are. We will. We do as we’re told.
I sometimes wish the curtains to close and never open. Here wrapped in my private night, I’ll live in peace with these hundreds of thousands of words scattered all around; most long forgotten and stashed away in burrows of rabbited nonsenses. The songs I love will play in endless loops through ears with no wish to hear the spouted obscenities and harsh realities — or so they claim — of this, that and the other. Darkness will fold around me like a lover’s kiss, all-encompassing, and I won’t even know if I’m dead, nor care. But then the words will come, white on black, and I’ll feel more alive than ever.
Sometimes a voice calls from deep within that I presume my own but still doubt. This — let’s call it soul — knows my name, my home, my life, wife and circumstance, but even this supposed virgin self is dubious to my needs. What are my needs?
I have absolutely no wish for anyone to read what I write. I have absolutely no desire to be famous. If people happen upon these reams of written words and enjoy them, feel them, I’ll smile and thank them, and expect no thanks in return. If a child picks up one of my books and their eyes light up with wonder, I shouldn’t care if their parent commands them to put it back — not if the spark’s already lit. If? Such a little word. Such a pertinent package. But the cold hard reality, is something has to pay for a coffin and good intentions won’t.
Sometimes I think I’m free. Sometimes, but not often.
Thank you for reading
It was an idea, a fanciful dream. I packed nothing and left everything.
The plantations were green, not brown. A prevailing wind filtered out the sounds of humanity’s pickers but the life I had wished for never existed.
I returned home deflated. My mum smiled and offered me a coffee.
We’re meeting in landscapes
Joined at the soul
Waiting nightly for sleep
To roam beautiful dreams
And though the world be silhouette, the definition of thy lines holds more power than any vibrant memory. In each stroke I remember, each molecule of ink I feel. This is no random symmetry, no desperate thought reformed, but all I was and am and wish. Brush strokes on a canvas to you and she and them, but not to me. In silhouette, I remain here: Japan.
Author’s Note: I drew this picture and wrote these words after watching a BBC series on the art of Japan. I wasn’t going to post it, but hope you like it. This piece means more to me than most as it’s a place I dream of someday visiting.
“When choosing a car, one chooses another’s created dream.”
“When choosing a book, one creates one’s own dreams.”
’There’s bills to pay.’
’I’m not sure you do. You can’t look out of the window all your life dreaming that the glass will clear.’
’Money! The world is coloured green. You’ve got to have money to live, even to breathe. If you don’t get yourself out there, you’ll starve.’
’Is that your answer to everything? Don’t you know anything else? And stop looking out of that glass, I’ve told you.’
’I’m not looking.’
’Then what are you doing?’
’Just recalling a time when there wasn’t any glass at all.’
The space between
Dark blue and black
Differing shades of forever
Where pointing fingers linger
And eyes do blink
The stuff of dreams gathering
Like nocturnal memories
No lights required
Just open minds
Stardust and magic
Little parcels of eternity
Destiny and hope
Children praying for shooting stars
Never has nothing held such value
Here, dwelling in held breaths
“I die for seven hours each day.”