The Labyrinth

We are told our futures lie inside our dreams–a virtual canvas of opportunity, we turn to the night to discover the light at the end of the tunnel.

We most often dream of love I think,  and spend our days searching the  streets contriving the moment our lives will fall neatly inside the very fairytale we only find in the darkness.

The irony of course, is that our dreams are creations born inside our memory, for we cannot dream of faces we haven’t seen–our bodies are only able to conjure up fragments of moments long forgotten, seen…but unknown. And so we lie still, unable to move forward, paralyzed by the memories that cannot out run the night. Silence is the Enemy of My Heart

But if all that haunts in twilight is forgotten by day, then what is forgotten by day, remains in the night. For the very memories that will linger inside our rotting bones, are created in the living we do today.

Who said we cannot bend time? Skew the past into believing it cannot haunt us anymore. Certainly I can recreate my second chance, for my awakened body has scars. Mappable in the sunlight, but only if I refuse to muralize them in the darkness.  All along I was trying to connect the dots, and write a story that never had an ending. It is a labyrinth of course, and our very minds cannot escape the day or the night. For we are always living, and always dying. And only our dreams themselves can discern the two.

I believe dreams may be for the young, but dreaming belongs to the aged. For the ones that kept on living, believing in the power of their own creations. Those who turned a bleeding cheek from very rules that can never be followed. Moments made in color, judged in black and white. You will find me searching in the middle, muddling my dreams even while I stay awake.

I fear that which I do not know, yet all along I’ve known it all. I should have seen this coming, even if only while I lied asleep.