Paralysed.

I have questions that cannot be answered, that ought not to be asked. I feel things that ought not to be felt, that cannot be touched by words. I cannot move. I cannot speak. I am suspended.

Despite the Ought and the Cannot, I’ll piece together a distant dream and tie it to a pretty cloud on some faraway sunset. It’ll float above me, tied by an ordinary plea. It’s just a dream.

We think of compulsion as the opposite of dreams. But it isn’t. Dreams are born out of compulsion. They grow out of the finite to live in the infinite. Fantasies feed on the margins of our limits, always a little out of reach like a helium balloon tied to the end of your little finger.

Maybe it’s this place. Or maybe it’s about time.
Maybe it’s you, you, you or you. Or maybe it’s just me.

This is my diving bell and it’s my butterfly.

I have plans drawn with toes grazing the ground. When my heels are firmly planted, I know it’ll be the road less traveled by. It’s alright though. I’ll be alone, mostly, and oft misunderstood.

But I think I’ll be okay.