Head Mush 04/30

Today I think I’ll be stuck inside a dream. No wait, eliminate the think, I think I’ll be decisive and say I am inside a dream.

As I sit here and channel the twisted genius of Dali for my backdrop with The Fray providing the soundtrack to what can only be described as a dream-aholic’s moment of clarity, I open my eyes. Not with the force of idealism, but with the pensive energy of someone lost in her own translation. I can see actual words as I type for those of you intrigued or bored enough to read this, but can only hear indistinguishable commentary in the background. It seems to sound a lot like Fred Savage circa The Wonder Years with a tidbit of Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I’m a sucker for men with souls and brutal self-awareness. The hot sandals and bad hair are just bonuses. Really.

I was told that dreamers need to be grounded in order to make things come to fruition.

Mom,
I think I failed.

I rarely ever feel the ground beneath my feet. Am I floating or am I oblivious? Are the deep pains beneath my feet a result of scraping my soles along my imaginative playground or am I simply well-traveled? Am I really flying or am I suspended in time?

With the moment in my hand and the aged and un-ending film strip looping itself on permanent replay, I engulf myself in watching what I really believe in.

Dreams are funny that way. Sometimes when we lose sight of them, they repeat themselves to the point of exhaustion, and age until you can no longer remember what they once were. If you’re lucky, from the crumbled images lying on the floor, you’ll find a reason to start piecing them back together…glue, tape and a bit of ego. Sure, they won’t be the same. Sure, they may even smell a little. And yeah, they might even die.

But if they can’t make it into your mind in the first place, how will they ever make it in real life?