blanketsthatwon'tletyousleep.
There was a man who sat in a lawnchair on the beach on an island far from other people. He had always been there, sitting. Sitting since the first second that had ticked of time. History had unfolded in front of him and he had gone on sitting. The ships came and set flags around him, cut down the trees and made their houses. The bombs went off, years later, when other ships came and airplanes cascaded the sandy shore with what was supposed to bring peace. Trees sprouted from seedlings to mighty, shade-creating covering up above. But no shade reached lawnchair-man on the beach, so close to the waves which nibbled at his toes.
He would, on occasion, reach over and pull the little chain which in turn pulls a little switch inside the lamp that stood there, and the lights would be smothered, the lights would fade and darkness would settle in like a scratchy wool blanket that won't let you sleep, but you know you can't get up to get a different one because you'll wake everyone in the house. So you continue to lay there, all night long awake, just to let the others sleep. And in the morning, when you come out of where you had been sleeping, you look at all these smiling cheerful faces that welcome you to this day. And you think back to the night previous, the scratchy wool blanket, and you realize that it wasn't worth it. You don't even know these people and they don't know you.
You are strangers. You are a stranger. The chain is pulled, the light comes on, then a sigh cascades from unshaved lips parted, and the chain is yanked, the lights vanish and the blanket covers all again.
"Here, take this glass of water, take a sip and know that it is good."
I reach over and take the glass from your hand, gingerly press it to my lips and take this proverbial cup of water which brings such memories of what is truly good, I take it and sip a sip. But with bitter buds of taste not true, I spit the drink in drowning agony. My feet pick me quickly to...my feet...and my hands reach for Shakespeare, Frost, Miller. And with the other fingers grab a candle nearby to sweep the words of history down the drain. Forget the words of wisdom told, their lives are theirs and ours are ours. Live on, live on, live on.
A dream's a dream, and shatter them. For ice will come and freeze the flowers.
He would, on occasion, reach over and pull the little chain which in turn pulls a little switch inside the lamp that stood there, and the lights would be smothered, the lights would fade and darkness would settle in like a scratchy wool blanket that won't let you sleep, but you know you can't get up to get a different one because you'll wake everyone in the house. So you continue to lay there, all night long awake, just to let the others sleep. And in the morning, when you come out of where you had been sleeping, you look at all these smiling cheerful faces that welcome you to this day. And you think back to the night previous, the scratchy wool blanket, and you realize that it wasn't worth it. You don't even know these people and they don't know you.
You are strangers. You are a stranger. The chain is pulled, the light comes on, then a sigh cascades from unshaved lips parted, and the chain is yanked, the lights vanish and the blanket covers all again.
"Here, take this glass of water, take a sip and know that it is good."
I reach over and take the glass from your hand, gingerly press it to my lips and take this proverbial cup of water which brings such memories of what is truly good, I take it and sip a sip. But with bitter buds of taste not true, I spit the drink in drowning agony. My feet pick me quickly to...my feet...and my hands reach for Shakespeare, Frost, Miller. And with the other fingers grab a candle nearby to sweep the words of history down the drain. Forget the words of wisdom told, their lives are theirs and ours are ours. Live on, live on, live on.
A dream's a dream, and shatter them. For ice will come and freeze the flowers.