my dreams are marzipan almond paste and powdered sugar egg whites beaten kneaded wrapped in cling film and frozen i took them out to thaw last month
my dreams are chickens unhatched i’ve counted done the math and put all of my eggs into a single provincial french basket
my dreams are castles in the air or castles in spain depending on how far back you want to take the saying
either way their spires are dark toned bordeaux bottles narrow and full of deep burgundy nero d'avola and beaujolais nouveau those fit into the hamper with my eggs
pinotage zinfindel shiraz malbec cab franc take me around the world and back again
swooping past the buttresses i built of carmenere monastrell grenache
deep and treacherous moats filled with every kind of filler red that pads out your favorite blend
(some day i hope to go to spain to see my ambitions in person)
my dreams are highly breakable when dropped on concrete and notoriously difficult to clean up
my dreams are clouds of small batch irish cream swirling around in espresso ***
my dreams are right in front of me and yet i can’t quite reach them unless i lean forward knock over some neatly arranged plans spill out school let it pool and run off the edge of the table and onto the floor
my dreams are spite shards of broken glass a fallen shelf astringent eighty dollar whiskey wafting through the air
my dreams are for the future but are somehow impossibly inseparable from the past
(i always tell myself if i could live through a pandemic i can do anything including making this phone call)
my dreams are motivational hobby lobby signs strung up with fairy lights in my head “the difference between a dream and a goal is a plan” “just busy building my empire” “hustle and heart will set you apart” but the signs don’t mention the heavy feeling of dread in my gut
don’t tell me what it’s like to carry a dream tell me what it’s like to carry aspirations of something better for myself while schlepping along an intense fear of failure and the itching dread that i’m making the wrong decision
my dreams are olive drab and dried out californa soundstage brown a younger me who could never foresee who i am today
my dreams are the skeleton hanging in the corner of henry blake’s office
my dreams are 99 cent shots of blue liqueur on my 21st birthday burning the back of my throat
my dreams are lit candles on the cluttered coffee table greenery and light florals wafting into the night
my dreams are chronic the thing my parents warned me about a genetic predisposition to addiction
my dream is not to be rich my dream is to afford therapy