Dreams of a Me that will never be

XXXI Days of Poetry - Day the Twenty-ninth


Dreams of a Me that will never be 

Sifted through my life this morning, 
discarding myself into glossy, black bags. 
Pieces of Me that once-upon a time were. 
Dreams of a Me that will never be. 

When will I find a place that feels like home? 
So many moves, so many dreaded rituals of 
opening boxes never unpacked from the last time. 

Or the time before. 

It's just stuff, you tell yourself, and it is, 
but it's your stuff. The things that meant 
something to you. Or were going to. 

I had plans. Those plans went in boxes, 
and eventually, glossy, black plastic bags. 
A life card-boarded up and plastic coated 
became the dreams hermetically sealed 
from the finality of a life not ever lived. 

Look: there are the 3x5 note cards for all the 
storyboarding of the movie scripts I was going 
to write after the first one. Every couple years 
inspiration hits, can't find the cards, buy more. 
Now I have twenty-odd packs of cards and many 
unfinished scenes sometimes sliding into my head. 
Can't make much sense of them any more. The best 
I can do is repeat that half-lament so often used
after a total disaster: seemed like a good idea at the time.

Feels apt. 

Look: there is the voice recorder I wanted 
for so long for a Internet radio show when 
that was a thing and then, years later, a 
podcast. Better late than never, my parents 
would say, and it's true, but they've lived full 
lives with kids and adventures, building things 
in different lands. Watching their ideas grow. 
Maybe I still will, I tell myself, finding a box to 
put the recorder in for now. Is it still a goal of mine? 

I don't even know. 

The pieces of me are held together with the 
starry-eyed dreams of an eighteen year old kid. 
None of it has happened, but to abandon those 
dreams would be to abandon that kid. Can I do 
that? At this point, would I even know how? 

I can still see him, sitting there, back when life
held so much promise, back when the future 
was so bright and clear (back when sitting didn't 
hurt). If I could warn him, would I? Would I seek 
to tamper expectations, possibly end his dreams? 

Now? I'm out of things to wish for, because 
none of them are coming true. So I'm left 
with my old choices, hopes and desires. 
wearing them like the only clothes I own. 

Dreams of a Me that will never be.

XXXI Days of Poetry (2016)

Read more Poetry, including previous year's "31 Days"

[ART - 
     Intro: still from "Howl's Moving Castle" - written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki  
     Outtro: "Deluge" by Hans Baldung (c. 1484–1545)]

Save the pep-talk; don't want to hear it

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