When the river crests and the floodwaters birth the wet nasty muck of a shattered life, what thoughts keep you afloat? What angels keep you dreaming? What spirits propel your arms through the current and kick your legs against a dying will? Do not shout to me of a saving grace, of a god’s plan, of a savior’s compassion. Do not whisper to me the absurd promises of mythological fads or paint rosy pictures of impossibility. Tell me the truth. Tell me the pain. Tell me the ache of longing for empty tomorrows, the human suffering of isolation. What earthly realities raise you from the depths when death is but a new opportunity?
Tell me of a day when fires burn bright, when the kindling of dreams sets alight the path of destiny. Tell me of the lost, of the missed, of the past, and then tell me of a future reclaimed, reinvigorated, bestowed upon us not by the whims of the Imagined but by our own determination. Tell me of your nightmares. The ghosts. The ghouls. The disappointment of loved ones. Tell me of darkness. Tell me of fear. Tell me of a thirst for revenge, reprisals, and reprimands. Tell me of vengeance unleashed on a fairy tale, where lovely maidens sleep forever because all the princes die in battle.
Speak to me of redemption, but bathe it in the cold hues of reality. Cast off the pretense of ancient nonsense. Ridicule the rhetoric of propagandists. Dance at the death of ideologies and spit upon the tombstones. Speak to me of salvation. Speak to me of hope. Speak to me of promise for our children, for ourselves, and for all who care more for each other than for a canon of make believe.
Dream of me tonight. Dream of me forever. Dream of us all, and dream us into happiness. Then tell me all your dreams, but keep them grounded, keep them real, keep them human, and in doing so make them magical.
When I first posted this blog a couple years ago, a friend of mine wrote part of it on a cafe chalkboard in Vermont. The cafe kept it on the wall for over a year. That’s awesome.