Largely. Petrifyingly. And with a little help from my friends.

Have you ever had a dream so big that it scared you?

A dream so large and filled with naïve wistfulness that you were afraid to articulate it? 

Afraid to say it out loud, afraid to put it into words on paper, afraid to indelibly put it into the universe in any way because you were so petrified that it wouldn’t come true?

Because once it’s out there, indelibly in this universe, it’s there for anyone to see. Everyone can know that you want this thing so badly that it scares you. Anyone has the right to raise their eyebrows incredulously and laugh at the gargantuan-ness of your wish. 

“You poor naïve little baby,” they can then say to you. “The world will chew you up and spit you out, the world will beat you down and refuse to let you stand up,” they can say.

Have you ever had a dream so large that being near it terrified you? Had a dream so terrifyingly large that it was easier to give up on it, pretend you never had it, shrug it off like you were better off without it and turn around and walk away?

Because you see, dreams are creatures of light. They shine ten thousand times brighter than the sun and radiate the most comfortable, happy warmth in the world. So of course you want to be near them.

Except for those few times, those impossibly difficult times, when they glisten too bright and dazzle too large. You squint up at them and hold your hand up to shade your face and still, it’s too hard to meet their eyes. You have to look away.

Have you ever had a dream that refused to let you go? Had a dream that you shut away in a box – once, twice, fifteen times – that always found a way out and back to you? A dream that followed you around throwing you forlorn lost-child looks while you unblinkingly looked in the other direction, trying to ignore it?

Have you ever had a dream real enough that it seemed like the truth? Ever had an idea that seems simultaneously heartbreakingly fuzzy and confoundingly clear in your mind? Have you ever stumbled on a plan that made utter and complete sense, with a quiet surety that felt strangely like destiny?

Despite it being too large to fathom, too gargantuan to wrap my mind around and way too heavy for me, I see it. It brings a lump to my throat, tears to my eyes, frustrates me, irritates me, petrifies me and fills me with the immensest joy I have known all at the same time.

Hey, dream of mine. I see you.

[So, I'm going to stop 'disclaimer-ing' after every dramatic post because it has become more than a trend at this point. I guess I am a dramatic person. Take that. <grin>  Whodathunkit. <another grin> Also. Thanks, you guys. You know who you are. You help me through the mojo-less days, make the sad days laughable at and the patches of life that lack resonance hopeful again.]

A Person-ful of Magic

[A couple of years ago, I was reading this book called 'Reading Lolita in Tehran'. I really liked the book, but that's not where I am going with this. A particular idea in that book intrigued me then and has kept a hold of me since. 

The author/protagonist has a friend she calls the Magician. He is never given a name. He is never put into the physical context of the relationships in her life. He is not her father, brother, or husband. He isn't part of her social circle, they don't 'socialize'. He is just an entity, all by himself. They have long conversations, she seeks his advice and he seems to understand her better than anyone. But there really is no way of knowing whether this 'person' exists at all outside her mind. <smile> 

A spoonful of sugar. A cupful of rice. A bucketful of tears; A oceanful of happiness. And perhaps a personful of magic.]

The Magician spins his wand and knows exactly what to say;

Claps his hands, twirls his top hat and brings a smile to my face.

He is All Humor; and the wit of the world distilled into an entity,

Swishing his cape and wielding his sarcasm with hilarity and careful ease.

Everyone should have a Magician, a million tricks up his sleeve,

Never-ending ribbon jokes and ten thousand stories to weave  

Into knots and animal shapes like loops around your head

As your eyes droop, delighted and drowsy, in that moment before bed.

A Magic Man, who listens patiently to anything you want to put to words

Who walks the rope – understanding the dark side and still seeing the hurt.

Knowing exactly why, he’ll watch as you hurl yourself towards that fiery ring.

He’ll wait to catch the burnt pieces of you, accepting and unflinching.

He’ll sprinkle stardust into the air, amidst a magic whisper and exaggerated winking

And suddenly, you’ll  find yourself whole again – 

                                      talking, grinning, eyes happily crinkling.

This Magician o’yours, he’ll never listen for applause or a take a single bow;

So you should make sure you say thank you – a thousand times, thank you – 
                                      in any way that you know how.

That Girl in the Mirror

[I don't usually advocate writing stuff like this on my blog, but what is writing if you do not pour yourself into it, yes? And so 'I have spread my soul under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my soul'. <smile> Yeah, Yeats had it right a long time ago.]

"I hope you won't misunderstand me if I say something else. Anne, I was grieved to the core of my heart when you lost your baby; and if I could have saved her for you by cutting off one of my hands I would have done it. But your sorrow has brought us closer together. Your perfect happiness isn't a barrier any longer. Oh, don't misunderstand, dearest--I'm not glad that your happiness isn't perfect any longer--I can say that sincerely; but since it isn't, there isn't such a gulf between us."

 - Anne's House of Dreams, L.M Montgomery

That is a line from one of my favorite books. And tonight, like so many other nights before, it comes back to me, like an old friend who sits in a corner of my mind all the time, grinning and waiting, watching for the right time to come sit with me. It makes my thoughts dark and heavy, like stormclouds gathering in my mind. It prickles into warmth behind the lids of my eyes.

Tonight though, oddly, it also makes me pull out my laptop and type. Tonight I want to play out on paper, that conversation I have had with myself over and over and over again in my head. I've only ever voiced these thoughts out-loud - in a real conversation with a real person - once before. The two of us were (barely) sitting in a rickety old KSRTC bus as it traveled from one side of Bangalore to the other, so it wasn't really what you'd call a perfect setting for profundity. I hope you're reading this, I hope you vaguely remember.

I have a handful of people in my life I'd call closest to me. I love them deeply. I think these people have shaped me in ways that only the ones you love deeply can. We've seen each other through a lot, considering we're still fairly young. Beyond the teen angst, we've shared happinesses and sorrows that come with the living of life - losing parents, losing dreams, dreams coming true, screwing up, doing things right, collapsing ideals, the developing of new ones with weary hesitation, the uncertainty of transition phases in life - so often sitting together in silence, sharing it all.

And through all the warm fuzziness of being friends forever, perhaps like Anne's, my perfect happiness will be a gulf between me and you. It sucks and I am sorry. I wish it could be different, I do. You could tell me, as my KSRTC-bus-ride companion did, that I should be careful what I wish for. You could tell me ten thousand times that you wouldn't wish that upon anyone. Yet, perhaps naively, I am still going to wish. And perhaps one day, my heart will break for reasons of its own instead of with yours. Perhaps that day I will be able to reach over and sit with you in perfect understanding - right next to you, with nothing in between.

Until then, we're stuck this way. I'm stuck here, always a given distance away from you - with my naive thoughts and weightless words, and my laughter that seems to you, equal parts full and empty, a laugh that could never truly understand. Maybe this shouldn't matter to me, but it does. It probably shouldn't. I wish it didn't.

Maybe part of growing up is realizing that you don't like yourself as much as you used to. That girl in the mirror I've spent my whole life loving, she makes me sad sometimes now. I give her looks of disappointment sometimes now - because I wish she was different.