Misery is what most people refer to as their lives. These lives we strain to build are illusory in nature; tattered butterfly wings hung on shimmering gossamer strings. They are the manifested misfortunes of childhood coupled with life-condemning failures we affectionately refer to as life lessons.
I was so overjoyed with my life that before I checked into the hotel I picked up a six pack of tall boys in the hope that I could turn back the hands of time and glimpse the shadows of my dreams, instead of living in the grey fog of hopelessness…
One beer down. No texts. No calls from loved ones. Nothing. The corners of my hotel room grew smaller, and a quiet sense of suffocation settled in for a time. Two beers later and images of my childhood began to flood my mind’s eye. I viewed these images as an aloof outsider: baseball games, bike rides, the smells of summer, and the magical flights of carefree bumblebees.
Two more beers allowed the darker images to bubble up to the surface and hover on the horizon of my thoughts: the woods, the screaming, the blood, and the smell of dead bodies under fall leaves.
We all make mistakes. It’s how we learn from them that defines our character. After the sixth beer I dared to dream again. I shoved the knife into my dollar store jacket pocket, and headed out into the night, into the world of 2nd chances, and the fleeting arms of hope. The hope that I’ll glimpse a glimmer of another’s lost dreams before they disappear forever from their fading eyes.
It’s good to have dreams, even if they’re not my own.