I have tried to organize everything before I feel it. Something like that. Suspended animation. Stopping time. Close my eyes and blink. I feel like a member of the 27 Forever club. Hendrix, Joplin, Cobain, and me. I ‘died’ at age 27. I’ve been dead for two decades. But none of them came back again, woke up and had a chance to live a second life. I’m awake. I’m alive again, and kicking down doors and gates. Is it time to feel now?

I have a recurring dream, which has become a lifelong desire by now. The dream was a field I was in, wide open and sunny, distant trees, rolling hills, sun going down. In the middle of the field is a door in a frame. I open it, and step through. It’s usually the end of the dream. After remembering this vivid scene, I want a large chunk of land, with a creek along one side, a cozy cottage in the distance, and peace and quiet. I want to acquire and install, somewhere in the middle of that field, a door in a frame. I am going to paint it red on both sides, so it stands out against the verdant hills. I will swallow a shot of bourbon or brandy, steel myself, put my hand on the knob, turn it slowly, and step through the doorway. Something tells me magic will happen then. Dreams can become real. Especially if they were always real.

I have a recurring dream lately, which has become a desire now as well. The dream is a path I walk down, through a forest, cleared and present but not paved, fairy lights and distant music coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. I don’t ever run, and I don’t ever stop to rest. I’m always moving towards something I want. It may lead to a bothy or to fae circle, and I may stay for a time, but those are not the final resting places. In the end, I know where the road leads. Sometimes a bird joins me, but she always goes away for a time, and I realize I have to walk this path alone. I can’t look behind me.  Sometimes a sidhe joins me, but she always laughs and disappears until I capture her image again. Sometimes it’s any one of a number of soul mates, guides, who tell me what to look for, where it might lead, and to follow the signs and never waver or falter.

Then I wake up. I think of who I always think of, and hope for what I always hope for. I also reluctantly accept what I always reluctantly accept: None of this may be real, and none of it may work out, and happiness may be elusive, and striving for it may be like throwing a feather as hard as I can, hoping the one who is far away from me catches it. No matter how hard I throw, it only goes so far.

I write millions of words of love and adoration, because I love. I hope I someday inspire someone, move someone, thrill someone so much, make enough of an impression, that they write beautiful, heartfelt and moving words for me, and I fall more deeply in love with them and their words every single day.

So far, I haven’t, and I don’t, and I’m not sure I ever will.

I’m afraid that when I go to walk across the middle of my own lush green fields, sauntering slowly and deliberately towards that solitary door that I myself installed and painted, that I will find it locked.

Will I kick it down? Or will I just walk off in despair and hopelessness…

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