2017 April 1 – Saturday
I used to live for the weekends. Struggle through the week at school so I could have two days off. Struggle through the week at work so I could have two days off. Now I am retired and I dream at night about going back to school and not knowing what we were studying, or I dream of going back to work and not knowing what the job is any more, or where the new office is.
But I have other dreams. Sometimes there are art presentations so fantastic, with choirs of singing friends and crowds of painting humans. Sometimes there are vast conspiracies between creatures from other planets and people who look like you and me. Sometimes there are delicate, loving animals, or wild, hungry beasts. Sometimes there are flowers and sunshine. Sometimes there be darkness, there. In my dreams, many fantastic events unfold.
Then I get up in the morning and make a pot of coffee. It is six-thirty.
I used to always get up at six-thirty. Walk to the bus. Listen to the people talking as we rode downtown. It was another life, then, and I was younger. There are filing cabinets full of the garbage I wrote at night (or on the weekend) and set aside for another day, another hour. Once in a while I would sit down and try to organize it. Many were the pages I threw away, never to see again.
Here is another, I fear, but it only exists electronically. As a computer file.
I shall most probably never print it.
Good bye, little word.
You fade, already, like a dream.