“Half of the people can be part right all of the time
Some of the people can be all right part of the time
But all of the people can’t be all right all of the time
I think Abraham Lincoln said that
“I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours”
I said that”
-Bob Dylan, Talking World War III Blues
Dreaming is the window to the dark heart,
and upon waking you don’t know where to start.
Is this real or just some of my dreams,
is this me, or things not what they seem?
Could I be floating on a cloud in the sky,
watching the people hustle right by.
Could I be a blade of grass covered with dew,
afraid that a lawn mower will pass on through.
But what is a dream, if it can’t be acted out,
and you remember until it fizzles out.
The fleeting dream of an embrace,
your fingers on skin, making a trace.
The soft lips against your lips,
two hands placed on two hips.
How desperately I hoped it would last,
that fleeting warmth that passed fast.
The world is sleeping right with me,
dreams that nobody else could ever see.
In dark twilight I slumber so quiet and still,
hoping that my heart will get a refill.
I really don’t do poetry as much as I used to, hell, I used to write a poem every morning and sneak it onto the bathroom counter when my love was showering. Things change, and so did my relationship. Separation, okay, got it, but it extinguished my desire to write poetry. My heart was hurt, and the hurt that I carried with me translated into suppressing the feelings that I had and the creativity I needed to make poems. Even thinking about writing poetry made me feel sad for the longest time. I didn’t think I was good enough at it to continue, I mean, if I were good enough, maybe things would be different. Maybe the hundreds of poems I had written would band-aid up some of my flaws.
Laughable, my flaws were a mile long, and my endearing qualities were about the size of a small driveway. You want to talk about being in a dark place, facing going to detox, facing losing everything, walking boldly into a new way of life, knowing everything is on the line, that’s a dark place. I didn’t give up, though, although I knew that was the easy way out. I could have said that life was too difficult, I had made too many mistakes to try to fix this dysfunctional mess of a person. Instead of having my own mind, the lizard brain decided to move in and turn me into a cold blooded liar.
And I tell you, once you start telling lies, they start piling up, until it’s impossible to keep them all straight. Lies that you’ve been telling your entire adult life, they all start flooding into your mind and life once you start making a conscientious effort to start fixing yourself and your mind. That lie you started telling when you were 19, it’ll come back to haunt you. The lies that you told your loved ones in your early twenties, yes, they’ll pull you down like a thug drags a victim down a dark alley. You will be in that dark alley, wondering why the hell you can’t tell the truth. Why, oh lord, why so many lies?
Like in the Bob Dylan lyrics above, you can be half right some of the time, or all right some of the time, but that’s because you’re leaving out important details. By omitting certain aspects of life, you miss out, you’ll never be all right all of the time. However, if you purge everything, rotten or not, you’ll reach that sort of clarity that makes your life a bit brighter and not so much like a dark alley. Those of us that have found that lying seems easier than telling the truth, I’ll tell you first hand, after about three weeks of making a bold effort to not tell a single lie every again, it’s nice.
Nice sort of like when you crawl into bed and there are clean sheets on it, a refreshing feeling of cleanliness. You life will turn into a clean and pure life, forever to be free of trying to remember whom you lied to and why you lied about it in the first place. I’ve also found that some of the topics in which I lied about come to me in my dreams, and I wake up in a cold sweat. The worst one has to do with drinking, and it has become a recurring dream which is scarier than any horror film I’ve ever watched – primarily because it’s so real, and there I am in full technicolor in my dream. I want to yell out to myself in the dream to tell me to stop, but I have no voice, I have no legs to run, I’m unable to save me from me.
“One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.”
― Sigmund Freud
Every single struggle I have faced has been a result of a lie I’ve told to someone else or told myself. It’s a lie either way. I can look back at the lies I told myself and they all boil down to one of two things. One: I love ________ Two: I hate__________. You’d think that distiguishing between the two is quite easy. I love something when in fact I actually hate it. I love the things I say I hate. The only reason I did this so much in the past was that I was trying to make the rest of the world happy, and I ignored my own self, which led me down a slippery slope of lies. I’d have to remember what I told people I loved, and had to act the part. It’s exhausting, really it is.
It’s like being in a movie and you’re typecast into a role that doesn’t fit you, but you try your damned hardest to pull it off. Forever being the plane that is crash landing and you’re pulling up on the airplane steering wheel thing. By making the decision of not lying, I’ve come face to face with a lot of things that I hate, and legitimately hate. I hate showering, but you know what, I still do it, but I don’t pretend or say I like it. I love cookies, BUT, I only like homemade cookies, manufactured cookies make me sick. I love sitting up in the middle of the night writing, and I’m doing so because I can, nobody can tell me not to. I love going to sleep with the radio on, and I’ll do so when I retire, because I like it.
“Where does a thought go when it’s forgotten?”
― Sigmund Freud
I know where they go, Mr. Freud, into you dreams is where they go