The Traveler.

By Addison

I once dreamt of a place that did not exist, and now my reality is torn between what I want and what is impossible.
It is all the same and there is no mediator.
But to be told that your a dreamer is hardly complementing.
People assume dreamers are the ones jumping off buildings thinking they would fly. But you know what assuming does.
I am no suicide attempt.
To me, this is all slightly catastrophic. But not the freight train de-railment type.
It's throwing your arms in the air and collapsing to your knees and grasping onto the dirt on the ground only to have a pedestrian stroll by and say ever so quietly under their breath "what a mess." You're reading lips, and glance to the sky to see the man hovering above you.
When did he get so confident?
Shaking as if you aged in years while you observed the observer, you slowly rise and stumble back to your feet.
Dust off your knobby knees and carry on, everyone needs to breakdown every once in awhile before they can fix themselves.
And you carry on.
And you carry on.
And on and on until the fork in the road makes you hesitate before turing left.
You laugh at the cliche and continue.
Your brain waves seem to be on repeat as if in stage 4 sleep. Heavy troughs and high crests. But what keeps your feet shuffling is the continuance.
Your not sure where your headed and by now you can hardly see the dark gravel passing you below.
However, if there is any reality in the dream you conjured once, you will find it, you tell yourself in determination.

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The Traveler.

Created: Jan 23, 2010

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