Drumming up dreams has been the juice of my life, and nothing gets my juices flowing more than the vast, green landscape of what may be someday.
Yet dreams are apt to turn wicked, swallow us whole and spit us out — if left unkempt, bare-boned and fleshless. It’s too easy to place another dream on a mantle of maybe-somedays, gathering dust until we have enough money or have enough time or have enough energy or have enough disgust with our own excuses and we’re finally ready to lasso one in, only to find we’ve missed our wagon to the pastures.
Somedays have a tendency to gel together until we can’t decipher one from the next; they get all clumped up and saggy, like a former beauty queen that let herself go. Untended to, they lose their shape, their playful charm, their bewitching powers to move men into action. Somedays aren’t pretty wrinkled and old, and we, who once would’ve given life and limb to acquire just one, eventually find we can’t stand to look at them anymore. Given enough time and dust particles, the nastiest few will grow a face and bellylaugh right at us. Not in a lighthearted, chuckling way. Somedays cackle. Progressively louder as they age. They taunt and nag with reminders of how much was promised them when first we fell in love. They love to do this just before bed.
My nights have been riddled with the haunts of Somedays past, those dusty old bones scuffling around the inside of my skull in a slow, demonic way. As the clock tisks its unforgiving tongue at me, and as the mercy of sleep creeps ever further, I flop around my bed in fits of desperation with each ghost summoned. An avalanche of Somedays rally together and pound at my heart, leaving little cracks in their wake. Another night lost to the vengeance of dreams done wrong.
Eventually, juices run dry. Dreams give up the ghost and simply fall asleep. Somedays age and grow bitter with time. Sooner or later they tire and fade. But bygone, they never do die.
However faint, a heart still beating promises life yet. Possibility hangs on ’til our very last breath. My dreams may be dusty, but damn it, I know they’re still alive.
The Blyss Catalyst 