Old Dreams Die the Hardest
When I grow up, I want to be a target.
My mouth should open and truth should fall from my tongue like 12 ton obscenities. Obscenities that are undeniable, because they are evident in every kitchen, alleyway, supermarket and school. Truth could make me dangerous.
It is not my desire to offend or cause pain for the joy of doing so. But, daily I search for that one thing that I could say for the rest of my life that could paint the bullseye on my forehead. In the deepest and darkest corners of my heart there lies a something that I do not fully understand. Yet I recognize that this thing which I cannot verbalize could be either my glory or my demise. In my most romantic meanderings, I fantasize that it could be both.
Ah! But this is purely ego talking! The old dreams die the hardest and since I was small I have dreamed of being an empty handed warrior. Armed only with language I could change the world. If only I had something to say. More than anything, I wish I knew what this thing was, this unutterable scream and joyous laughter that sits in my solar plexus waiting for the proper stream of words to ride out on.
So I write, I speak, I read and listen. Maybe I will find that thing to say that will give me enough power to share with those around me who will, in turn, pass it on.
My mouth should open and truth should fall from my tongue like 12 ton obscenities. Obscenities that are undeniable, because they are evident in every kitchen, alleyway, supermarket and school. Truth could make me dangerous.
It is not my desire to offend or cause pain for the joy of doing so. But, daily I search for that one thing that I could say for the rest of my life that could paint the bullseye on my forehead. In the deepest and darkest corners of my heart there lies a something that I do not fully understand. Yet I recognize that this thing which I cannot verbalize could be either my glory or my demise. In my most romantic meanderings, I fantasize that it could be both.
Ah! But this is purely ego talking! The old dreams die the hardest and since I was small I have dreamed of being an empty handed warrior. Armed only with language I could change the world. If only I had something to say. More than anything, I wish I knew what this thing was, this unutterable scream and joyous laughter that sits in my solar plexus waiting for the proper stream of words to ride out on.
So I write, I speak, I read and listen. Maybe I will find that thing to say that will give me enough power to share with those around me who will, in turn, pass it on.
posted by Bree O'Connor at 3:40 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home