Dang it, dream girl.

Last night, I met the girl of my dreams. Unfortunately, I woke up to find that last statement literal. Humorous and disheartening. I barely got to spend any time with her, and I’ve already forgotten some of that. What I do remember is that she enjoyed the  rain and splashing in puddles. She had long semi-curly brown hair (then again, it was raining, so maybe it was just frizzy, doesn’t really matter to me) and an infectious smile with dimples. 

When I was a kid, I occasionally had dreams that I thought came true. Nothing terribly dramatic, I don’t think. Or maybe they were just déjà vu and I just didn’t understand what that was at the time. Childhood memories are terribly unreliable, as are remembered dreams. 

If my life was a movie, at least I could probably presume she would come to life so I could have a real conversation with her. Then I’d probably full in love, and then she would decide that I wasn’t her dream man. And I would wish I’d never had that dream. 

I’ll keep my eyes peeled anyway. 

Drought

I am so thirsty; I am so nauseous. This drought is more than I can bear. I am tired of deceiving myself, deceiving you. I hope for a 40 day flood, a flood to fill the valley, and I will hope someone throws me a life preserver so I can doggy paddle over to the mountain top. I know better than to try the breaststroke, because every time I try it, I sink like I’ve a millstone about my neck.

But what will I do should that flood come and I reach the mountain? I’ve been there before only to lose my footing.

Oh there I go lying again. Truthfully, the snow was just so pure, I grabbed a sled to enjoy the rush down, but how I wish I hadn’t. How I long to be back, but my body, my body betrays me.

Museums are for the Dead

Museums are for the Dead

Creation. Birth. Life. Death. Every. Single. Day. This is how the story has gone. No day goes by where you and I do not die. We were dead before we were born, because we were born to the dead, who were born to the dead, who were born to the dead. Because death begets life that is dead from the start. How can the dead come to life again? How can what has passed be renewed?

We’ve become a museum filled with relics of the past, as excavated and elaborate coffins line the halls. No curator can bring this place to life; we need a creator; A fresh breath, a fresh breath, a fresh fire to burn it all down. We like our relics and we clutch them with our death grips and we try to take them out the door with us as the fire consumes. But our corpses are highly flammable, and they yearn to come to life. The dead are alight, but will they be alive?

Recreation, reignition, rebirth is a painful thing, but the real pain is on the one who gives the new life and not the newly born. For how can the dead complain? Are they not already dead? Yes, the dead want to be alive again, and so they begin to listen. A whisper grows. The creator speaks. We come alive, not again, for we were never alive. We come alive, for the first time. When love moves, life begins.