My dreams used to be colorful.

Poetic, & charming.
My creative subconscious painted pictures of things unthought
& adventures unhad.

I explored places I’d never been,
did things i’d never done..

I flew, I conquored, I sang, I danced…

I archetectured places that don’t exist.
Knew people I haven’t met.

I was wise, I was mystical.

I was in control…..
In adult life, that same space once occupied by gest & beauty,
merely reflect those things I don’t deal with while conscious.

Repressed emotional scars.
Conversations I’ll never have.
Or more so, too prideful to have.

I discover painful things that haven’t yet happened.
Relive situations I regret, & say the things I didn’t say.

The palette is dulled.

The script is based in actuality.

It’s redundent. It’s vexing.
How do you recover when your rest time is as exhausting as your reality.

How do you get back to a place, that’s not down on any map?

Its been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I don’t agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, cover them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But its never gone.