“I owe too much to have dreams.”
That’s what I said to Carrie today.
And I meant it.
I owe too much to have dreams.
Oh, I have dreams, in a way.
Those intangible realities that float above your head
Between sleep and real life.
Yes, I “have” dreams.
But I can’t HAVE them.
Not, really, I can’t embrace them,
Suck them into the deepest chasm of my chest.
But like real, concrete, non-Godforsaken air.
Instead I languish without them.
Living each day like, oh there’s nothing wrong.
And in a way there isn’t.
I am blessed, I am giving.
But to a certain, perhaps mild, extent…
I am living a lie.
A lie you say? How now?
There’s this hippie artist in me,
Who is half pretending she doesn’t exist
And half finding holes through which to breathe.
Thereby she gets through every new day,
Ruled by the money that can only be found in God’s service.
Not that God’s service has much money,
But it is all she is fit for.
No, that is all I am fit for.
She’s be fit for so much more.
Sailing on the Ocean blue,
Ridiing wild horses,
Vacationing in Italy, Ireland, or Paris,
Writing films that saved those who had eyes to see.
Painting saviour’s for lonely hearts,
And bleeding poetry and magic with every step,
Apart, from all the world.
And yet, she’s given it all to God,
Waiting for Him to give it back.
As the clock ticks…