Writing

Dreamers

There is a world out there. A world meant for just you. A world that’s beyond comprehension to everyone but you. But you can’t help but try, as hard as you can, to bring others in, to show them the marvel you see, the technicolour storm clouds that billow and morph into creatures that have no name, the stars with moons for smiles, the confetti as large as pine trees, the giant lip in the sky from which the symphony of the soul overflows.

Because you know not, or refuse to know, that these outsiders, as loved as they are by you, as irrelevant as they are to you, will eternally be blind to this whimsical realm only you can exist in. And so the gravity of the aching heart pulls you down into a crouch, head bowed, gazing at the spot in the ground where the light doesn’t reach, wondering the purpose of this loneliness, cursing this fate that has commandeered you.

Yet you must continue, to enter this world, surrender to it even, because it is not a matter of desire but need; an inner voice from beyond shadow and light that seduces and frightens at the same time calling out to you to conceive from this dimension a being that can transcend the different planes of reality and be visible to all.

So to you, the writer, the poet, the actor, the painter, the thinker, the swimmer in the waterless ocean, the runner in the clouds, embrace this abyss.

Live it. Breathe it. Spiral freely into it. Smother its soil all over yourself and dance to the rousing beat of its trumpeting heart.

Dream, dream.

Dream.

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