To wake in a sweat. To fear for just a blink that the dream was true, that all was lost, that her imagination had stained her sheets. That she had taken a risk, and faced the consequences, whispered a forbidden thought and been heard by the masses. Once a marble goddess crumbled into ashes by actualized thoughts…
But it was just a dream.
Yet she tiptoes through the night, immobilized by the twilight. Fearful of who and what awaits here when she relinquishes control of her breath and thoughts. Circles beneath her eyes are the evidence that she fears something much greater than the boogie man. For while he resides beneath her bed, her mind consumes her, and grips her in a mad, passionate and unforgiving fury…
But these are just dreams we speak of.
Then she will fall into a pool of diamonds that taste like sugar, and never get tired of their sweetness. She will bathe in fountains of champagne that keeps her ageless. No care or reasonability in the world. No disappointments or doubts, none disappointed or doubtful of her..
But it was just a dream.
And reality assumes a post somewhere in between the cold sweats and bliss while not entirely independent of one another. Neither a goddness, nor a heathen, she is merely a human who sometimes dances on the brink of extremes.
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Restless by Cecilia Borromeo
ReplyDeleteIt is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying
crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
only to remain unseen;
We weave our web of what we believe we understand
of the relationship of our acts and events
only to remain misunderstood;
From that odd wisp of steam of heated discussions
to the urgent hiss of a new page calling;
I teeter on that thin ice --
That single space of uncertainty --
And I ask
“What am I doing here?”.