The ways in which things fall apart.
Slowly,
like sandcastles,
and snowmen.
melting away,
in the rays of the sun,
the soft gentle waves.
Quickly,
like the way fire takes apart,
a paper plane.
one final blaze of glory.
Painfully,
like your words,
eating away all of my dreams.
Never more,
never more.
We fall into the stars.
silent and holy,
alone in the cathedral,
waiting to feel,
the presence of nothing.
That which tucks us in,
and tells us,
that the monsters,
are just illusions.
Is that what dreams are?
monsters?
In the dark,
out of reach,
intangible and fragile,
waiting to flee when the lights come on,
slipping away,
to the corners of our mind.
So what is this feeling then?
is it the presence,
of a state of heartbreak?
is it the absence,
of the dreams we shared?
does it haunt you too?
Or,
are you not afraid,
of monsters anymore?
Perhaps this is when,
we forget how to be children.
Stuck in a world,
of the finite and real.
alone and cold,
because we forgot about love,
and our dreams.
We took on their dreams.
the ones they forced down our throats.
Day after day,
year after year,
it only gets worse...
Once we lose the the bliss,
of endless possibilities.
Once we discover,
that we cannot be an astronaut.
Once we learn,
to accept our given fates.
We are lost.
Nothing can escape,
the winds of change.
Why then,
do we run?
and hide,
pulling the covers up over our head.
Why not embrace the inevitable?
open the window,
fly away,
and never come back.
We allow ourselves to be chained,
firmly to the ground.
We are responsible,
for our wont of love.
having pushed it out,
to the fringes of existence.
A hermit,
alone,
so profoundly alone.
He takes solace in his infinite wisdom,
and grace.
small comforts.
Wishing for just one companion.
one person,
to help conquer the dark.
with which,
they can brave returning to the cave.
But this other is elusive,
and cannot be found.
rather they must find,
their own way out.
That secret path,
hidden in the shadows,
along with our dreams.
Society tries,
to obscure all hope.
if we do not play along,
with this self imposed torture.
everyone will turn against us.
They are so lost,
that they cannot see,
cannot even fathom,
their poor and tortured lives.
They do not know,
why they cannot be happy.
why they cannot be free.
what being free would even mean.
To be truly free,
from that subjugating will.
which is itself a fiction.
They have created the overlord,
the one who sits atop the mountain ruling supreme.
they pay their homage to him,
dominating themselves.
We however,
cannot be dominated.
we will not allow ourselves,
that easy way out.
We alone can be held accountable.
for this pain we feel,
is of our own creation.
Our own monster,
roaming in the night.
Yet still,
the joy we know is transcendent.
freeing us,
from our own traps.
We see the overlord for what he is,
a monster,
an illusion,
a dream,
a sandcastle.
Copyright Eric Whittier October 2010