Two decades before the fall I dreamt of that white house with black shutters, entered the dimness and saw myself – withered, a straw body
Could I have altered the course gathered that mummified self in my arms, breathed new passion into old bones, stopped the onslaught of night of cells freezing passionless
No. I walked in oblivion seduced by false trickery dim-witted in the fading light cold, aloof, unresponsive warnings be damned
Two decades later, body inert, mind bereft of hope – I dreamt of a younger self so intent on life that she passed me by.
A simple shoebox, repurposed with plastered images of dreams – paper affirmations of aspirations – shelved and forgotten, its contents
snapshots, faded and torn, remnants of another time, a different future – captured when potential was prime and possibility untainted by illness
This one was retirement – a supposed celebration – but note how the colour has drained the cracks obliterating pride of accomplishment; and notice
how this one crumbles to the touch – the fragments dissipating even as my life has dissipated, the image lost before memory resurfaces, so
much loss when circumstance dictates direction, overpowers will, and plans like snowflakes, vanish in the heat of reality – pain and insult burning
But wait…this one looks promising – the edges only slightly torn, the image discernible – could it be that there is hope yet – a future author I might be?
That’s the thing about times to come, we fill them with imaginings, and pray, our hope, like balloons set free in a sea of unforeseen challenges, and seldom
does the end result reflect projected plotting, and yet, there is power in the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old with new photographs to store away.
(This is a rerun of a rerun. Still resonates. Image my own)
Descending into the mythical entranced spurred by severity of current challenge
Call it fantasy but attempting movement is destroying my passage
I am pulling, shattering this barricade of a life; blue progressing: ocean bound.
(Mermaid Dreams was originally written in December of 2016, two years bedridden. Only in the dreamtime was I whole and capable of overcoming. Dreams are one thing I can talk about for thirty minutes without preparation: my challenge this week. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 