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A Birth of Sorts


malign

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Once I was a hermit.

It was a kind of life.

I lived alone. I owned stuff; I worked to pay for it.

It was also a kind of death.

Then one day on the road of life, I came across a dream.

I thought it was my dream; it promised everything I wanted.

I probably should have looked harder to see how I was supposed to get it.

I probably deliberately avoided looking.

And so I died a different way.

I got to be everything I wanted ... in name only.

When the dream turned out to be hollow, I found that the promise was also the trap.

I could not leave without losing everything I thought I had gained.

I wish I could say that I awoke then.

But that did not happen.

Instead, I tore at my bonds only to have them snap back into place uncut.

The only exit I could see was death, and it became more enchanting each day.

The awakening came much later. It took many steps; too many.

Finally, I realized that the promises were lies, though I still could not break free.

What I did do was to stop struggling in it, stop drawing the bonds tighter, that way.

Now, I might only be a passenger in my life, but I no longer tried to steer off the cliffs.

And then the dream spit me out.

I awoke scrambling to find a foothold as the dream dumped me beside the road.

It was not easy; I got new bruises to add to the ones the dream had given me.

But I was no longer dead.

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Thank you, ladies. :-)

Maybe it's not what to say, but the need to say it, that makes your responses valuable.

This stuff still froths over, from the marriage; particularly, why I "bought" the dream and why I stayed when I knew it was empty.

What's odd is that I imagined writing a narrative story, though with the same themes, but this sort of cold prose poem came out instead. ;-)

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