“That’s why they call it the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it.” George Carlin
The dream machine
Dust settles at night and we all breathe a sigh of relief as even the sun takes its rest, no less to light up another world and us also to our dreams we visit. Exquisite realm where everything is felt but a sharpness it lacks where we don’t have contact with all the beginnings and endings that tie it all up. Unlike the world of the day. The day where cracks are filled with cement. Lament. Fragments of perfection that kind of shatters each time it’s nearly fixed.
What are you trying to make? What are you trying to fake? The truth to yourself can still be avoided. Like little raindrops seeping in, but we squirm and we scream to stay dry and keep on trying, trying to get there, trying to get where. Safety is hidden under the misgiven and all we know its touch and feel and that feels real enough. For now. And so. We hope that the unknown, goes gently on us.
Trust. It’s all that we can take from disproportioned world where we feel at the centre, and yet a mere speck on a deck, wiped clean and part of someone else’s dream. Still we lean into all its wonder, all the thunder and pain and return to happy again. And do what we love and love what we do and little care for whether others will approve. Oh fantom, oh fakes, oh pity for the snakes of the world, won’t you just grow into your own. For the kingdom is waiting and the earth is ready to be taken by those who can be. Will be. Just see. And fit comfortably into where you already are.