The Broken Winged Bird. 
Monday, September 1st, 2008
All my childhood, all my adolescence, all my life I was, I am, a Dreamer. A practical dreamer, if you will, I knew, I know that that’s not how life was going to go, that’s not how it is. I knew that hard work and perseverance was how things got done, but…but, in my flights of fancy, it was simple, things were simple, and colorful and snapping and alive. And even though I knew, I knew, none of the dreams were going to make the leap from my head to my life, there was the tiny tiny infinitesimal font at the bottom of each page that whispered, “it could“.
What do you do with the day that comes and the mouse’s hand has been erased?
When you know,you know with no footnote attached, you’re never going to be a famous amazing singer or the coveted actress, the Olympic winner, the wise and patient missionary, the tragic heroine in the saddest love story ever written, you’re not going to write the next great American novel, you will never be rich enough to have a butler and you will always wash your own toilets.
And it’s not that you hate your life or the good things you have, it’s just that the big swooping possibilities are gone, the dreams are still there, but the purple sparkly smoke of Maybe This Could Be blew away with…what? The years? The growing up? The medication? The bills? The job? Life?
Do you keep dreaming and hope for hope? Or do you settle your thoughts down to what you have and think only about today and yourself?
What do you do?