Blue crows streak across my dreaming mind’s sky; they take up their post in a line of trees. I stand at the edge of a burning field. I feel nauseous at the thought of glorifying an ‘active’ life. Everything is burned, scarred and crumpled; the flashy crows call from the hedgerow. I know it’s time to fly. The fire is out and I have work to do to keep the sparks and dormant embers from ruining another harvest. I must travel with these strange birds and live an odd but regimented life. I needn’t scorch my feet on this ground again but, like my companions, must spend some time in survey. If I do not fully assess this damage, I might not fully embrace this dawn.
Bury your dead issues.
Why is it so hard to be me?
I have everything I could wish for.
I have love and friendship,
I have talent and ability.
What more could I want?
I don’t want more,
I want to learn how to overcome fear
and live with disappointment.
Abundance is ever at the door,
but I have no room for plenty.
Reassurance is the thing I chase after,
yearn for, pine about, but it is an illusive thing
like taking hold of smoke.
Allusion is the gift-wrap of reality
the unwrapping often puts me off the contents;
regaining my composure and reestablishing willingness
is a difficult job requiring dedication and fortitude.
The barrier before the carefree me
is thought, the strongest of all substance.
I must heal the calcifications of my mind and resist rigidity.
My thinking is what makes being me problematic
without it I am nothing at all.