My Dreams

I dream wistfully of being the swordsman, thrown aloft and pointlessly to his death. That there might be a chance to be a hero is all that matters. For a medal and a bow on stage I’d give my very life: to train, to prepare, and finally to the carnal embrace of battle itself. When the glory of the blade fades I just want to have mattered.

The reality of mediocrity is often worse than death. You sit and dwell in placid happiness waiting for the next dash of spice that you may lather it upon yourself and share stories of it with your friends.

Which is worse, I wonder; it’s a matter for the times.

I shout to be clad in bright metals, gleaming from their temper; listless words echoing my features. More emotion than catharsis, my visage shall bring tears. To inspire mortification my simulacrum shall be stolen.

Much like the dread of the Summer Solstice, my presence shall be worshipped and hated. For the tyranny that my unending heat brings yet inevitable necessity that is the rise of the sun. When I am tallest and brightest others cannot resist cursing my name as they bask.

I dream of these things for it is winter. I have no glory and the flowers that I pick may just be sticks. Perhaps floundering like this brings the most happiness to all so I lay down my cape and sword. I have and will never be adorned and so I dream of a dream where I may be more than a square in a rectangle.