Dreamer's Dream

My mother used to tell me that dreaming would get me nowhere - that I needed to get my head out of the clouds and do something with my time. And with her smooth Chinese and lilting English, I believed her. But even then, I still climbed trees slowly and imagined my fortress, my palace and my future into creation. I was secure within my family's love and content within my scampering mind. As she cleared the table each night, she would tell me to eat my dinner faster, calling me her "Slow Lady" and jolting me from my reveries. And always, I would dutifully pick at my rice. I remember vaguely how nine o'clock was shockingly late and how after my shower, my mother would blow dry my hair for me - every night before bed. Those were the days when boys had deadly cooties and when my shrieking laughter was never in short supply. I ran through the days, not noticing where I was going, but always dancing, always twirling. And with my eyes closed and my swift, fleeting steps - it was ok.
But all that running and exhilaration eventually carried me forward and I was bewildered to find myself an unbalanced teenager. How did I get there? What was I doing there? I looked and saw that I now cupped a broken family, a shattered heart, a vain and proud spirit and a confused and wandering soul. And though I searched and searched, I could not find my home - I could not see my stars. In my desperate exploration I stumbled upon the heavy beats and melodic screaming that I had not known existed in music.
'Ah,' I sighed - for I had found something that I could drown in.
And again, 'Ah', I cried, when I discovered my heart hardening - felt the bitterness and sorrow that caked it. And I screamed long and hard when I saw that I could not stop it. I knew the truth then; when I was forced to stop my voiced agony and draw breath again. I knew that the colors that had bloomed so brilliantly for me before were faded and dull and that dreams were hopelessly deceiving. I learned that demons were real as night after night I fought to keep them from my already troubled sleep. Sometimes, during the nights when I chased wearily after rest and could not catch it, I would draw open my blinds and stand beside my window - watching, despairing, at the black, black sky. I would think back to the years so- very-long yet not-so-long ago and remember the echoes of my freedom and joy.
'Is it really so different now? Am I really that different?' my anguished cry to the faint stars.
And I would not hear the whispered response, 'Yes and no. She is still deep inside you. Hold on, my love, hold on.'
My mother no longer told me to stop my dreaming. She was a sadly determined woman and her focus had slipped and clawed and intensified. No - she would not deny me of non-existing dreams anymore and she would not dry my hair.
My dreaming had been replaced. There was a hole there that grew inside me and it would not close. Each time I slipped, the darkness would leaden over my head - pressuring, smothering - and sometimes it seemed to me that I could hear it's heavy laughter and feel it's clammy shadow enveloping me. When it's chilled breath became unbearable, I would mumble in my head - and desperately wish it away - hoping that I could not fall farther.
My hope of escape came and went, the ever-changing bird; brightening and dimming my world at its whim. I questioned my dance and strained for the end of the tension. Exhaustion and Confusion were the only constants in my life, it seemed.
'Where am I now?'
'I don't know. (You've wandered far.)'
'Is there no end?'
'There is. (But you cannot see it.)'
'How long? How much more?'
'Do you love me?'
'Yes'
'Then hold on. (I will see you there.)'
The journey still continues but I know now that I will cling until my death. I am not yet done here, in this world, and Life still calls to me.
They say that Time heals all wounds.
. and so I wait -
. and so I believe that I will not be conquered.