Where do dreams go when they die?
Is there a dream-garden where old dreams, no-longer-needed-dreams, drift to settle and become fertilizer for just-being-born-dreams?
When do necks and chests (decollete?) become crepey and begin to retain night's pressured-stamp of sleep? Long before we notice? How long before we lose our despair at such insult and absurdity and simply accept?
At what age do we become who we are forever and ever without hope of change? Two months old? Nine years old? Fifty-seven, almost fifty-eight years old? Ever? Never?
Why do we allow ourselves to froth into anger over things which do not deserve anger? Why can't we admit what it is we are truly angry about? Or, accept that it is not anger at all which we are feeling, but something worse, which may be fear?
How have we gotten so far-removed from what is truly life and important in life that we are obsessed with the clothes celebrities wear? Is this somehow related to our bird-spirits, always looking to see which of us has the glossiest, the finest, the most far-reaching feathered wings?
What do you wake up and wonder? What sleep dreams of yours do you find hardest to shake loose of? The sweet ones with stolen kisses or the fiery dreams of terror? Where do your feet lead you when you set them on the floor beside the bed and what do they look like there? Do you ever look to see them, those feet which carry you through your days and your lives, which take you into hallways and kitchens late at night when sleep will not come and your mind commands them to take you away from bed's taunting torment? Do you slip those feet immediately into slippers or do you let them grip the floor with their clever toes, bare on wood/carpet/stone? Do feet, as it sometimes seem to me, have an awareness of their very own which directs our steps? Or did I dream that?
Who are you when you wake up and is it the same person you were when you went to bed? How can we be? All of those cells which make up our very corporeal being which holds our very ethereal self have changed overnight and does that make us different in any real sense of the word? Or words? Or do we dream ourselves into a different person/spirit/being as we sleep and do these two things have anything to do with each other at all? Do our cells direct our dreams or do our dreams direct our cells or are they as separate and unconcerned with each other as the tiger in his cage and the llama in hers?
Why are we compelled to sit and put out words and questions and do musicians ask questions when they use fingers/breath/mind/ to create music? Do the birds know they are singing and why do some bird calls sound like questions and some very much like answers?
Where is that dream garden and can we reclaim a dream we have let drift there or is it too late, once we have let it go? Do we outgrow our dreams or do we simply give up on them? Do we despair at their loss?
I think so. Do you?