What Started Off as a Dream

What started off as a dream, still continues, in some reminiscent old part of my mind. One I visit in flashes, almost like an uncontrollable reflex that takes place at the sound of an old song, or the words to an old rhyme. There’s something in the air, something mysteriously quantum physics about it. It’s like it can capture little capsules of specific, significant time and bring it all across the oceans of the past for you to breathe in, for just a tiny instant or lift you up, like Jerry got lifted up by the trail made from the scent of cheese; you close your eyes, and you’re taken back. Right back. Though sadly it’s all a haze. But you can hear the sounds. Feel the floor. And you can smell the time. Every time has a scent. An unexplainable one. One that only you know and only you can tell to which great column of this giant book of time that scent belongs to. And as much as you can share these thoughts, that time is still all yours. Untouchable and unexplainable.
Little ripples across a narrow stream down the old country home you loved as a child, but will probably never return to. Images flash in front of your eyes, making you almost wanting to dive into them; almost. With you holding on to your seat on an everyday afternoon sitting numb on the chair that holds you back from daring into attempting the very things that gave you that sense of identity. You hold on to that unimpressive throne of survival, for letting go, might take you back, to a moment of bliss, and consequently, sheer sadness. Coming out of it, is bound to be hard.
The tree lets the wind take over, dancing, moving, grooving to the pushes of the music of the wind only they can hear. And each time they dance, Time unravels itself, from the ghettos of your layered mind; maybe to a rainy evening with your grandmother, standing by the window, crying, feeling scared, for some unknown reason, inside a concrete room, watching the trees dancing to the music of the wind in a trance. And in this brief travel, there’s the right kind of music playing in your head too, to make you smile a crooked smile that holds back a broken pipe of tears. Time is beautiful. She leaves you with passing. So nothing stays and everything becomes all the more precious, all the more beautiful, and all the more important. Time gives you longing, and reminds you of her passing, every waking moment, every occasion, every sleep over, she’s there, wrapped neatly around your existence; reminding you, to savour it, because tomorrow, it will be gone.
And as a tiny butterfly reminds us of a time in which we went days trying to capture one, we’re tormented with unreachable parallels, of clinging on to what was, pleading for a little journey back, to maybe even start over, and yet, with painful, and uncontrollable hope for what is to come.
And so she plays her tricks, Time. Teasing you, in moments of elevated dream, playing with you, as she brings back a breeze from the past, a face even, that drifts you into comfortable memory, sweet, and painful. From moments you keep safely hugged between your heart and your ever growing, rational mind; in that place of comfort no one can touch, and no one can feel.
As the guitars play the same chords to a song lost in the ripples of an old country house in Wales, Time moves on, reminding you of “passing”- her cruelest gift.