At one time, I was that girl that had her hand out, with the other encased in a baseball glove, ready to catch whatever wildly served dream was coming my way.
Now… not so much.
The wonder is still there… maybe… a little bit. At least, I want it to be there still. So, that’s got to count for something, right?
Inside me, I feel battered. There’s no grace or beauty. Just new depths from the cracks to my foundation. These changes aren’t mysterious or brazen – they’re deep. They’re pits formed by inconsolable anguish and accented by uncaring retorts.
I’m a reformed sleepwalker, whose dreamless day walking is but a shadow – an echo – of everything that once was.
But, I have a dream catcher. And I watch as it twirls and spins. I watch as it claims the dreams that could have been. And, I ponder if this yearning feeling will ever go away. If my destiny never really was mine and if I’ll forever be sidelined in my mind.
I guess you could say that I dream about dreaming. Or, at the very least, I dream about wanting to dream again. I crave to have that desire beneath my skin again. That longing for the future and all of its spidery backroads to nowhere that always leads to somewhere.
My directions are tangled now and my dreams, they’re unspun.
But, maybe – if I catch a dream – I’ll find the marvel of a new moment that has yet to be tainted by the gaping wound inside.
And, maybe, just maybe…
I’ll be a dreamer, once again.