people have told me that they can manipulate their lucid dreams. i find that my dreams manipulate me, maintain mythologies assumed broken.
the garden of gods whose marble i have already taken a hammer against, reassemble in the night and attempt reassignment to my story.
night after night, i argue against the validity of their claims. i wake up feeling like a rock at the bottom of a pool, skittering in a forgettable current.
a month of these re-runs of regret, relentless, asserts old narrative, save for one dream in which i wake up on a roof in the first light of day at the point where creation makes a “pop” sound.
it’s how my dad said he woke up every morning that he hiked the grand canyon. he would fall asleep as the world grew dark, and wake not to the light, but to the strange sound of the earth coming alive.
in this dream i wake to dawn, pull myself from a tangle of sheets and draw up to a pale corner near the edge to watch lavender and yellow kick up a new day.
it’s my hope to find this place, to press into my destiny and live unfettered.
the race of the heart is never to the swift, but rather to the steadfast and consistent. a laurel not yet earned. a reliable beat on a chosen circuit.