Throwing a Rock in your Dreams

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Abstract

terial ceiling, concretised like mind itself. I am weighed down by finer aspirations cursed as a boy. I am soul weary, always. All of it ends in death but humans plow on as if the god in them possesses a faint remembrance long forgotten. Everything built falls. My focus is on the screen — backdrop for activity of any sort. Behind that pure light shining its blessings on our madness. Apparently, I should have a dream — we all should — but mine’s to be done with fantasy & take up reality as first cause. On screen, a snaky woman counsels me on how to entrap her fellows to get more sex while some guy insists our purpose is to make a million. <i>Hell! Why not a billion?</i> I couldn’t give a damn about your dream but sometimes, I see a ring of light around your face & want to scr

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eam — <i>‘That’s it! Right there!’</i> But it’s a hopeless cause for you are lifetimes out — on the perimeter miles out by that supernova where the soul taps its fingers & waits.</p><p id="f45a">Copyright Simon Heathcote</p><div id="f2ca" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/skating-on-thin-ice-a344a70376dd"> <div> <div> <h2>Skating on Thin Ice</h2> <div><h3>Do you really want to know the answer?</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*u3hMzKmXGi84O9Wk)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

When will we choose reality, always already the case?

Balcony hours — a slight breeze & swaying fronds. Down a nearby street usual metallic clangs of industry while over the road some guy drills to improve his house. There’s always someone busy someone getting on. If there’s a mean average, these are the heights of the average man whose dreams hit only a material ceiling, concretised like mind itself. I am weighed down by finer aspirations cursed as a boy. I am soul weary, always. All of it ends in death but humans plow on as if the god in them possesses a faint remembrance long forgotten. Everything built falls. My focus is on the screen — backdrop for activity of any sort. Behind that pure light shining its blessings on our madness. Apparently, I should have a dream — we all should — but mine’s to be done with fantasy & take up reality as first cause. On screen, a snaky woman counsels me on how to entrap her fellows to get more sex while some guy insists our purpose is to make a million. Hell! Why not a billion? I couldn’t give a damn about your dream but sometimes, I see a ring of light around your face & want to scream — ‘That’s it! Right there!’ But it’s a hopeless cause for you are lifetimes out — on the perimeter miles out by that supernova where the soul taps its fingers & waits.