Cold as Imaginary

Featuring:

Some hopes,

A dream,

Some running that didn't quite happen,

And an awful lot of tears.

A re-working of something I wrote, age eight.

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They're back; footsteps like secrets, collecting and pooling into my room to claw at my ears. No words, no indications, just there, and I can't change that.

I lean against the door and hope that they can't hear my breathing. I hope that they really aren't there. I hope I never have to say what needs to be said.

Ahead of myself, what a place to be. I would know, look at me now. But anyways, youngest is not fun. I assume oldest is no picnic either, or right in the middle, but such is not my predicament. Youngest, however, is something I have ample experience with.

When I think of my dream, I think nothing more than solace. The simple joy of a peaceful existence with nothing to prove. but who am I kidding? Who died and made me Gandhi? Who am I to think I am right?

They definitely are there. In this darkened state of mind, I want to run to them and drown my fears in human company, though I also want to run away. But I stand and stay and wish I could move.

Gaps are bridged, some with less difficulty than others. A gap in one's teeth may be filled with fake teeth, a gap in the road with asphalt. A gap in years, work and pain. That's how.

My imagination is what keeps me at bay. The thought that things might not be what they appear. Is maturity really just taking things for granted? But it's cold and hard, whatever it is. Lurking in the shadows, twisting the way things are perceived. It constrains society by those who see and think, and those who accept with their eyes closed. Blind faith is one thing, and blind reality is quite another.